/^A-^    /fj/ 


MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


MOSAICS 


OF 


HUMAN    LIFE. 


ELIZABETH  A.  THURSTON. 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.    B.     LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 

1866. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  j-ear  1866,  by 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT    &    CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


There  is  a  pleasant  old  story,  that  once  upon  a  time,  Trutli 
went  into  a  library,  and  burnt  all  tlie  books,  save  two  or  three  ! 
The  compiler  of  a  book,  in  his,  or  her  best  estate,  must  be 
considered  one  of  the  humblest  servants  of  her  Majesty, 
Nevertheless  if  there  be 

"A  natural  gift, 
The  lettered  grain  from  lettered  chaff  to  sift," 

such  followers  and  gleaners  have  their  value. 
The  collection  is  a  motley  one ; 

"A  thing  of  shreds  and  patches;" 

But  such  is  life — a  mingled  thread — "  An  April  day ;  sunshine 
and  showers  alternate;  joy  follows  close  upon  the  heels  of 
sorrow.  The  funeral  procession  scarcely  passes,  ere  we  are 
gazing  on  the  wedding  pageant." 

As  it  is  not  yet  determined  by  universal  consent  of  natu- 
ralists, whether  the  egg  preceded  the  hen,  or  the  hen  the  egg, 
could  I  begin  my  mosaics  better  than  to  follow  the  order  of 
one  of  the  most  authentic  beginnings  of  life  extant  ?  namely, 

that  of  the  "  grand  old  gardener,"  and  his  wife ;  and  introduce 
1»  5 


6  TNTRODUCTORY. 

my  characters  in  Eden  !  If  an  Eden  can  be  to  mortals,  per- 
haps the  era  of  wooing  and  betrothal  approaches  it  most 
nearly. 

I  would  say,  in  conclusion,  to  all  who  read,  to  all  who 
receive,  and  to  all  who  give  away  this  compilation,  [may  their 
number  be  Legion,]  that  if  I  have  collected  pictures  touching 
and  graphic  on  many  phases  of  human  life;  if  I  have  gathered 
together  quaint  and  valuable  sayings ;  if  I  have  been  a  faithful 
and  loving  step-mother  to  a  pleasant  and  suggestive  book,  I 
have  an  abundant  reward. 

ELIZABETH  A.  THURSTON. 


CONTENTS. 


BBTBOTHAL. 

PAGE 

BETROTHAL SliaJcspeare.  17 

THE   LONG  PATH 0.  W.Holmes.  17 

EXTRACT  FROM  "ARTEVELDE." Henry  Taylor.  18 

A   KING'S  WOOING SliaJcspeare.  18 

THERESA'S  ANSWER  TO  WILHELM Goelke.  19 

HESITATION Alfred  Tennyson.  19 

PROPOSAL Bayard  Taylor.  19 

NOBODY  COULD  HAVE   SEEN  IT From  tlie  German.  20 

BEHAVE  YOURSEL'  BEFORE  FOLK Scotch  Song.  21 

JUDY  McLEARY Irish  Ballad.  22 

JENNY  KISSED  ME Leigh  Hunt.  23 

AN  OFFER Bayard  Taylor.  23 

THE  CONFESSION Elizabeth  Austin.  24 

TAM  GLEN Robert  Bums.  26 

THE  IMPROVISATRICE L.  E.  Landm.  2T 

GENEVIEVE S.  T.  Coleridge.  28 

THE  GROOMSMAN  TO  HIS  MISTRESS T.  W.  Parsmis.  30 

BRINGING  WATER  FROM  THE  WELL 32 

THE  APPEAL S.  W.  Brooks.  34 

SCHULE— LOVE William  Motherwell.  35 

LOVE Charles  Swain.  36 

THE  BROOKSIDE R.  M.  Milnes.  37 

7 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

AN  EXPERIENCE Alfred  Tennyson.  38 

THE  PICrrKE  AT  THE  FOUNTAIN Jeremias  GoUhelf.  39 

TO  William  R.  Spencer.  39 

ASSOCIATION J.S.KnowUs.  40 

A  TALISMAN P.  S.  Shelley.  40 

A   WOMAN'S  QUESTION Adelaide  A.  Proctor.  40 

CHOICE  OF  A  TTIFE Sir  Philip  Sydney.  42 

MARRIAGE Nathaniel  Cotton.  42 

LOVE  ■RTLL  FIND  OUT  THE  WAY Percy's  Mdiqws.  44 

THE  AN'NOTER 2Sr.  P.  Willis.  45 

BRIDAL  SONG Henry  D.  Austin.  46 

THE  FATHER'S  LAMENT n.  W.  Lcmafdlow.  47 

THE  BRIDAL.     A  PICTURE 47 


WEDDED  LIFE. 

■WEDDED  LIFE H.  W.  Lrngfellow.  51 

DOST  THOU  REJLEMBER? 51 

A  CAUTION Lord  George  LyUMon.  52 

DARKEY'S  COUNSEL  TO  THE  NEWLY  MARRIED Edmund  Kirke.  53 

THE  POET'S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE Allan  Cunningham.  54 

TO  MY  AATFE Gerald  Massey.  56 

A  QUESTION Matthew  Pryor.  57 

TEN  YEARS  AGO Alaric  A.  Watts.  58 

GOOD  AND  BAD  SPIRITS Frederiha  Bremer.  61 

MUTUAL  FORBEARANCE William  Cowper.  62 

SUCH  A  ONE  AS  HE  WOULD  LOVE Sir  Thomas  WyaU.  03 

FROM  "MANUEL  DES   PECHES." Wadington.  63 

AN  ANGEL  IN   THE  HOUSE Leigh  Hunt.  64 

ART  OF  PUTTING  THINGS Boyd.  64 

TO  MY   BlUDIE Caroline  Souihcy.  65 

A   WARNING Alfred  Tennyson.  65 

TRIFLES  NOT   TRIFLES F.  Bremer.  66 

THE  LENT  UMBRELLA Vouglas  Jerrold.  66 

A  TAULE  OF  ERRATA Thomas  Bood.  69 

THE  UNREASONABLE  HUSBAND 73 

THE   WOMAN-LYE  MASTERPIECE Jlcywood.  74 


CONTENTS.  9 

PAGE 

THE  GOOD  WIFE Tlwmas  Fuller.  75 

MUTUAL  FORGIVENESS J.G.  Holland.  76 

THE  RETURN William  J.  Miclcle.  76 

TO  MY  WIFE Samuel  Bishop.  77 

ILLUSIONS R.  W.Emerson.  78 

BREAKFAST  TALK.     No.  1 Douglas  Jerrold.  79 

BREAKFAST  TALK.     No.  2 Douglas  Jerrold.  79 

THE  TRUEST  FRIENDSHIP Cotton.  81 

A  TRUE  WIFE George  Chapman.  81 

"ANGELS  UNAWARES." T.  PoweU.  82 

WOMAN KobeH  DodsUy.  82 

THE  STORY  OF  KARIN J.  G.  WhiUier.  83 


BABYHOOD. 

WOMAN'S  RIGHTS Pundt.  91 

SEASONS  OF  PRAYER Senri/  Ware.  92 

THE  BABY 92 

MY  BIRD Emily  Judson.  93 

A  GRAPHIC  DESCRIPTION  OF  A  BABY Knickerbocker.  94 

THE  INVALID  WIFE Fanny  Eem.  96 

BABY Knickerbocker.  99 

AVERSE  FOR  THE  YOUNG  MOTHER  TO  PARODY Thomas  Moore.  100 

A  NURSERY   SONG 100 

THOUGHTS  WHILE   SHE  ROCKS  THE  CRADLE J.G.Holland.  103 

PHILIP,  BIY  KING Miss  Muloch.  104 

OUR  BABY Mrs.  Gage.  106 

NOT  AN  EVERY-DAY  BABY? Mansjield.  107 

CHILDREN Jean  Paul.  107 

LETTER  TO  A  NEW  BORN  CHILD Catlmrine  Talbot.  108 

THE  RETURN 110 

THE  CHILD  POET J.R.Lowell.  110 

SIJIPLE  PLEASURES Jean  Paul.  Ill 

A  PICTURE James  Ballantyne.  Ill 

DOMESTIC  BLISS 112 

THE  MOTHER'S  COMPLAINT William  Miller.  113 

THE  CHARGE  OF  INFANTRY Knickerbocker.  113 


10  CONTENTS. 

FAOE 

SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  REMARKABLE   BABY C.  Diclccns.  116 

TWO  YEARS  OLD 116 

A  PARENTAL  ODE  TO  MY  SON TJumas  Jffood.  118 

FOUR  YEARS  OLD Leigh  Hunt.  120 

THE  RIDE  IN  A  WIIEEL-BARROW Boyd.  123 

AMANTIUM  IRSE  AMORIS  REDINTEGRATIO  EST Richard  Edwards.  124 

FATUER  IS  COMING! Mary  HmoiU.  124 

A  MOTHER'S  MORNING  PRAYER 125 

THRENODIA J.  K.  Loivell.  126 

CASA  WAPPY D.  M.  Mair.  127 

TESPERS 129 

CUILDREN'S  PRAYERS 130 

CHILD-SLEEP Thomas  Hood.  130 

EMULEMATICAL Byron.  131 

THE   BIRDWATCHER Laman  Blanchard.  131 

LITTLE  WILLIE   WAKING  UP E.  H.  Sears.  132 

CHRIST  AND  THE  LITTLE  ONES Julia  GUI.  134 

THE  FISHERMEN Charles  Kingsley.  136 

SO^nNG  IN  TEARS 137 

GOOD  LIFE,  LONG  LIFE BenJonson.  139 

LITTLE   CHILDREN Mary  Homtt.  139 

WHAT  THE  CHRIST-SPIRIT   SAID  TO  CHILDREN 140 

THE  HALLOWED  DRAWER H.  B.  Stowe.  141 

A  PICTURE rhamas  BurUdge.  141 

CinLDREN W.S.Landor.  142 

TO  A  CHILD  EMBRACING  HIS   MOTHER Thomas  Hood.  143 

MOTHER'S  LOVE W.  J.  Fox.  144 

MY  SERMON Boyd.  144 

IN  JIEMORIAM KniclccrbocJcer.  145 

A   SUNBEAM  AND  A   SHADOW Monthly  Religious  Maganne.  '  li6 

A  MOTHEH'S  joys WHUam  Ferguson.  146 

THE  CHILDREN n.  W.  Longfellow.  147 

ANTIPODES ET.B.  Stowe.  148 

THE  DEAD  BOY William  Alien  Butler.  149 

THE  PRATTLE  OF  CHILDREN Jeremy  Taylor.  149 

ILLUSIONS Emerson.  150 

THE  CONTRAST Plummer.  151 

THE  MOTHKK,  even   IN   DEATH John  Broum.  162 


CONTENTS.  11 

PAGE 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR H.  W.  Longfellow.  153 

MOTHER'S  TRUST Charles  Didcens.  155 

MOTHER'S    TENDERNESS Washington  Irving.  155 

"I  LIVE  FOR  THEE." Alfred  Tennyson.  156 

THE    SEA R.  B.  Stoddard.  156 

LITTLE  CHARLIE F.  B.  Aldrich.  167 

KITTIE  IS  GONE Williavi  B.  Bradbury.  158 

HOW'S  MY  BOY? Sydney  Dobell.  159 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY J.  G.  Whitlier.  161 

HARRY'S  LETTER Thomas  Hood.  164 

A  QUESTION John  Gay.  165 

THE   BOY'S  APPEAL 165 

THE  FATHER'S  ADVICE Richard  Hildreth.  166 

AGAINST   BOYS Chamber^  Journal.  166 

WHICH  IS  THE   HAPPIEST? PauldeKock.  167 

EXTRACT  FROM   A  LETTER Henry  Sydney.  167 

THE  BOY  AT  FIFTEEN! H.  B.  Slowe.  168 

WHAT  THE   FATHER  SAID  TO  THE  SCHOOL-BOY Thomas  Hughes.  169 

WHAT  THE  FATHER  SAID  TO   HIS  DAUGHTER Lard  CoUingwood.  169 

WHAT  THE  POET  SAID  TO  THE  YOUNG  MAIDEN CharUs  KingsUy.  169 

WHAT  THE  POET  MIGHT  SAY  TO  THE  YOUNG  MAIDEN'S  MOTHER...GoeWie.  170 

BOY  LOST! 171 


YOUTH. 

YOUTH KL.Bulwer.  177 

EMILY   IS  MARRIED! Cliarles  Lamb.  178 

TO  FANNIE  IN  A  BALL  DRESS John  Everett.  179 

MAIDENHOOD H.  W.  LongfelUm.  180 

LIFE  IS  BEFORE  YE! Ihnny  KembU.  180 

IDEALS  OP  WOMAN.     No.  1 AUxander  Pope.  181 

IDEALS  OF   WOMAN.     No.  2 George  LyttMon.  182 

MY  KATE.     Ideal  No.  3 E.B.Browning.  183 

IDEAL.    No.  4 ^yiUiam  Wordstvorth.  184 

FROM  "COMUS."      A  MASK John  Milton.  185 

EXTRACT ridor  Hugo.  187 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS T.Hood.  187 


12  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

VIRGINIA T.  B.  Macaulay.  191 

SHE'S  GANE  TO   DWALL  IN  DEATEX Nithsdale  and  Gallomay  Songs.  192 

A  MOSAIC  FOR  FRIENDS 197 

A  MOSAIC  FOR  YOUNG   MEN 203 

A  MOSAIC  FOR  HOUSEWITEP 209 

A  MOSAIC  FOR  US  ALL 215 


SINGLE   LIFE. 

THE  OLD  MAID'S  PRATER  TO  DIANA Mrs.  Tighe.  221 

BROTHER  AND  SISTER atarles  Lamb.  223 

EPITAPH  ON  AN  OLD  MAID Englishwoman's  Journal.  224 

COUSIN   JANE 2-25 

FROM  AN  "EXTRA  LEAF  ON  DAUGHTER-FULL  HOUSES." Jean  Paul.  227 

IF  THOU  COULDST  KNOW 228 

SOLITUDE   OF  SINGLE  WOMEN Dinah  ilidoch.  228 

MIDDLE  LIFE S.  Osgood.  230 

EXl'ECTATION L.  E.Landcn.  230 

IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN J.  G.  Wldttier.  231 

THE   UNLOVED O.  W.  Holmes.  232 

FROM  "ENDVanON." Longfellow.  233 

REFLECTED  HAPPINESS Charles  Lamb.  233 

FROM  "MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING." Sliakspeare.  234 

BACHELOR'S  FARE ITorace  Smith.  235 

OUR  IDEALS Victor  Hugo.  236 

EXACTIONS   OF  MARRIED  PEOPLE Willcie  CoUins.  236 

A   BACHELOR'S  IGNORANCE Manafidd.  237 

A  BACHELOR'S  QUESTION Euffmi.  237 

SONG  OF  ANTICIPATION ElizabeOi  Austin.  237 

KIZZY   IIRINGLE Fanny  Fern.  239 

THE    FORSAKEN Auld  Sang.  240 

THE  WOUNDED  HEART E.B.Browning.  241 

A    PICTURE Eclectic  Review.  243 

NOT  A  MISTAKE G.  W.  Curtis.  244 

JEAN  PAUL'S  QUESTIONS 244 

OLD   MAIDS Unilfd  States  Gazette.  245 

BONG   OF  CASSANDRA From  the  Spanish.  246 


CONTENTS.  13 


PAOB 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A  BACIIELOR Shakspeare.    247 

A  REMONSTRANCE Alat-ic  A.  WdUs.    248 


OLD  AGE. 

AULD  AGE.     A  Treaty Elizabdh  Hamilton.  253 

GOLDEN  WORDS 0.  W.  Holmes.  256 

THE  FLIGHT   OF  YOUTH Richard  M.  MUnes.  256 

THE  LAST  LEAF 0.  W.  Holm^.  259 

SONG John  SUrling.  261 

EXTRACT  FROM  "DIVINE  POEMS." Edmund  WaUer.  261 

JOYS  OF  OLD   AGE FraUrica  Bremer.  262 

BOYS  AND  GIRLS  FOREVER J.G.Holland.  263 

ONE  GOOD  OLD  MAN G.  W.Curtis.  263 

BEAUTY  OF  AGE H.  B.  Stowe.  263 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  MEADOW Louisa  0.  Moidtm.  265 

COmNG   HOME Alice  Gary.  268 

THE  PLEASURE   VOYAGE O.  P.  R.James.  270 

A  PETITION  TO  TIME B.  W.  Proctor.  272 

THE  GOOD  OLD   FRIEND Mary  Hcnixitt.  272 

THE  ONE   GRAY  HAIR WaUer  S.  Landor.  273 

TEMPERANCE Richard  Orashaw.  277 

USE  OF  EXPERIENCE 277 

THE  SAFE  SIDE John  Denham.  278 

SIR  MARMADUKE George  Caiman.  279 

TO  A  GRANDMOTHER Bernard  Barton.  280 

BEHIND  THE  MASK Atlantic  Monthly.  282 

THE  SPARK  DIVINE Johann  C.  Lavater.  283 

A  RETROSPECTIVE  REVIEW Thomas  Hood.  283 

OLD  AGE R.  W.  Emerson.  287 

ANOTHER   CHANCE E.  S.  Turner.  288 

THE  OLD   MAN'S  FUNERAL W.C.Bryant.  288 

MY  FIFTIETH  BIRTHDAY F.D.Gage.  290 

IT  NEVER  COJIES  AGAIN R.H.Stoddard.  294 

FROM   "HALL  OF  FANTASY."' Hawthorne.  295 

THE  GRANDMOTHER'S  APOLOGY Alfred  Tennyson.  295 

ACROSS  THE   RIVER Lucy  Larcom.  800 

2 


14  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FLIGHT   OF  TIJIE 302 

TRAVELING  IN   FOREIGN   LANDS 302 

PRAYER   OF  ALEXANDER  PEDEN 303 

A  SUMMARY  SUMMING   UP  OF  DIFFICULT  SUMS 303 

LIFE Antia  Lelitia  Barbauld.  303 

NIGHT  AND  DEATH Blanco  White.  304 

OUR  BIRTH  IS  YET  TO  COME F.  H.  Hedge.  305 


BETROTHAL. 


15 


Mosaics  of  Life. 


BETROTHAL. 


Miranda.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Perdinand.  I, 

Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  i'  the  world, 

Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 
Miranda.  I  am  a  fool. 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of. 
Ferdinand.  Here's  my  hand, 

Miranda.  And  mine,  with  my  heart  in't. 

Tempest — Act  III.,  Scene  I. 

THE  LONG   PATH. 

T  FELT  very  weak,  indeed,  (tliougli  of  a  tolerably  robust 
habit,)  as  we  came  opposite  the  head  of  this  path  on  that 
morning.  I  think  I  tried  to  speak  twice  without  making 
myself  distinctly  audible.  At  last  I  got  out  the  question : 
"  Will  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  ?"  "  Certainly,"  said  the 
school-mistress,  "  with  much  pleasure."  "  Think,"  I  said,  "  be- 
fore you  answer ;  if  you  take  the  long  path  with  me  now,  I  shall 
interpret  it  that  we  are  to  part  no  more  I"  The  school-mistress 
stepped  back  with  a  sudden  movement,  as  if  an  arrow  had 
struck  her.  * 

2*  17 


18  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

One  of  the  long  granite  blocks,  used  as  seats,  was  hard  by. 
"  Pray,  sit  down,"  I  said.  "  No — no,"  she  answered,  softly;  "  I 
will  walk  the  long  j^atlt-  with  you  !" 

The  old  gentleman  who  sits  opposite,  met  us  walking,  arm 
in  arm,  about  the  middle  of  the  long  path,  and  said,  very 
charmingly,  "  Good  morning,  my  dears  !" 

0.  W.  Holmes. 


Extract  from   "  ARTEVELDE." 

Adriaxa.  Nay,  said  I  not — 

And  if  I  said  it  not,  I  say  it  now; 

I'll  follow  thee  through  sunshine,  and  through  storm ; 

I  will  be  with  thee  in  thy  weal  and  woe, 

In  thy  afflictions,  should  they  fall  upon  thee ; 

In  thy  temptations,  when  bad  men  beset  thee ; 

In  all  the  perils  which  must  now  press  round  thee, 

And  should  they  crush  thee,  in  the  hour  of  death. 

Let  but  thy  love  be  with  me  to  the  last. 
Artevelde. 

My  love  is  with  thee  ever ;  that  thou  knowest. 

Henry  Taylor. 


A   KING'S   WOOING. 

/^  AXRT  thou  love  me,  Kate  ?  A  good  leg  will  fall ;  a  straight 
^  back  will  stoop;  a  black  beard  will  turn  white;  a  curled 
pate  will  griiw  bald;  a  fair  liico  will  witlicr;  a  I'ull  eye  will 
wax  lioUow;  but  a  (jood  hairf,  Kate,  is  the  sun  and  moon,  or 
rather  the  sun  and  not  the  moon ;  for  it  shines  ])right  and 
never  changes,  but  keeps  its  course  truly.  If  thou  wouldst 
liave  such  an  one,  have  me.  If  thou  canst  love  me  for  this, 
take  me ;  if  not,  to  say  to  thee,  that  I  shall  die,  is  true ;  but, 
fur  tliy  love,  liy  the  Lord,  no;  yet  I  love  thee  too. 

King  IFknuv  V. — Act  V.,  Scene  II. 


BETROTHAL.  19 


TKE]RESA'S   ANSWER  TO   WILHELM. 

T  AM  yours,  as  I  am,  and  as  you  know  me ;  I  call  you  mine, 
-*-  as  you  are,  and  as  I  know  you.  What  in  ourselves,  wed- 
lock changes,  we  shall  study  to  adjust  by  reason,  cheerfulness, 
and  mutual  good-will. 

Goethe. 


ly/TARRIAGES  are  best  of  dissimilar  material,  as  iron  runs 
^^  not  so  well  upon  iron  as  upon  brass ;  only  the  dissimilarity 
must  not  be  too  great,  else  it  is  all  wear  and  tear. 

Theodore  Parker. 


HESITATION. 

"OUT  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

-*-^  The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May, 

Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 
And  so  it  was,  half  shy,  half  sly, 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly, 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


PROPOSAL. 

rpHE  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 
-*-    The  cowslip  loves  the  lea, 
The  scarlet-creeper  loves  the  elm ; 
But  I  love — thee. 


20  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars  they  kiss  the  sea, 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover  bloom, 

But  I  kiss — thee. 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate, 

The  lily's  bride  o'  the  bee ; 
Heaven's  marriage-ring  is  round  the  earth ; 

Shall  I  wed  thee? 

Bayard  Taylor. 


'N  buying  horses,  and  taking  a  wife,  shut  your  eyes  and 
-  commend  yourself  to  God ! 

Italian. 


NOBODY    COULD    HAVE   SEEN   IT. 

"f7AST  down  the  staircase  swinging, 
-*-    With  flying  feet  I  passed ; 
Quick  up  the  staircase  springing, 

lie  came  and  held  me  fast; 
And  the  stairs  are  dark  and  dim — 
Many  a  kiss  I  had  from  him, 

And  nobody  could  have  seen  it. 

Down  into  the  hall  demurely, 

The  guests  were  assembled  there ; 

My  cheeks  flushed  hot,  and  surely 
My  lips  did  their  tale  declare. 

I  thought  they  looked  at  me  every  one. 

And  saw  what  we  together  had  done. 
Yet  nobody  could  have  seen  it. 


BETROTHAL.  21 

The  garden  its  sweets  displaying, 

Beckoned  me  out  of  doors  ; 
The  welcome  call  obeying, 

I  hastened  to  look  at  the  flowers  j 
There  blushed  the  roses  all  around. 
There  sang  the  birds  with  merry  sound. 

As  if  they  all  had  seen  it. 

From  the  German. 


BEHAVE  YOURSEL'    BErOKE   TOLX. 

T)EHAVE  yoursel'  before  folk, 
-^  And  dinna  be  sae  rude  to  me, 
As  kiss  me  sae  before  folk. 

It's  no  through  hatred  o'  a  kiss, 

That  I  sae  plainly  tell  you  this ; 

But  ah  !  I  tak'  it  sair  amiss. 
To  be  sae  teazed  before  folk. 
Behave  yourself  before  folk. 

When  we're  alane,  ye  may  tak'  ane. 
But  nent  a  ane  before  folk. 

Ye  tell  me  that  my  face  is  fair ; 
It  may  be  sae — I  dinna  care — 
But  ne'er  again  gar't  blush  sae  sair 

As  ye  hae  dune  before  folk. 
Ye  tell  me  that  my  lips  are  sweet ; 
Sic  tales,  I  doubt  are  a  deceit ; 
At  ony  rate,  it's  hardly  meet 

To  prie  their  sweets  before  folk. 

But,  gin  you  really  do  insist 
That  I  should  suffer  to  be  kissed, 
Gae,  get  a  license  frae  the  priest, 


MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


And  inak'  mc  yours  before  folk; 
Behave  yoursel'  before  folk, 
And  when  we're  ane,  baith  flesh  and  bane, 
Ye  may  tak'  ten — before  folk  ! 


Scotch   Song. 


JUDY    MLEARY. 

n~^WAS  Judy  McLeary  so  fresh  and  so  merry, 

Was  milking  the  cow  at  her  own  cabin  door, 
And  thinking  of  nothing  at  all  in  the  world. 

But  the  flowers  that  were  blooming  the  cabin  roof  o'er. 
The  steps  that  she  heard  at  her  side  the  same  minute. 

The  Toice  that  so  musical  broke  on  her  ear, 
The  sigh  that  came  warm  on  her  rosy  red  cheek, 

All  spoke  to  her  heart  then  of  Terry  McLeare. 

"  Oh,  Judy  McLeary,  you  beautiful  soul, 

It's  yourself  I  am  thinking  of  three  days  and  more. 
But  I  crooshed  down  my  heart  till  I  felt  it  was  breaking. 

And  then,  you  persave,  I  could  bear  it  no  more. 
Then  tell  me,  dear  Judy,  at  once  if  you're  willing 

To  lave  your  own  cabin  so  lovely  and  dear, 
To  gladden  my  life  with  your  smile  and  your  singing, 

The  Guardian  Angel  of  Terry  INIcLearc." 

The  tear-drop  in  Judy's  bright  eye  was  fast  gathering. 

And  deep  was  the  sorrow  that  sjwke  in  her  tone; 
"  Oh,  Terry,  me  darlint,  how  can  I  go  wid  you, 

'I'll  l.ivo  mo  poor  mother,  an  (irdii,  alone? 
AVduld  yim  lave  your  own  fatlier,  and  sisters,  and  brothers  i 

Thty're  dozens  and  dozens,  they'd  never  miss  you, 
And  welcome  yc'd  be  to  our  own  little  cabin. 

It's  plenty  convanieiit  fur  us  and  you  too." 


BETROTHAL.  23 

Then  Judy  stopped  quickly,  and  looked  on  tlie  ground, 

For  she  feared  she  was  speaking  of  more  than  was  right; 
But  Terry,  he  blessed  her  with  warm  Irish  feeling, 

And  gained  the  consent  of  her  mother  that  night. 
The  bells  they  were  ringing,  and  glad  voices  singing, 

A  welcome  to  Judy's  own  cabin  so  dear, 
And  never  the  cow  was  suspecting  the  change 

From  Judy  McLeary  to  Judy  McLeare. 


JENNY   KISSED   ME! 

TENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met. 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Twice,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in ! 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad : 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me  : 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add 
Jenny  kissed  me ! 

Leigh   Hunt. 


AN  orrEK 

T  WANT  you,  Carrie,  for  my  wife.  You  may  hunt  far  and 
wide,  but  you'll  find  nobody  that'll  keer  for  you  as  I  will. 
Every  man,  Carrie,  that's  wuth  his  salt  must  find  a  woman  to 
work  for,  and  when  he's  nigh  on  to  thirty  as  I  am,  he  wants  to 
see  a  youngster  growing  up  to  take  his  place  when  he  gits  old : 
otherwise,  no  matter  how  lucky  he  is,  there's  not  much  comfort 
in  livin'.  Perhaps  I  don't  talk  quite  as  fine  as  some,  but 
talking's  like  the  froth  on  the  creek,  maybe  it's  shallow,  and 


24  3I0SAICS  OF  LIFE. 

maybe  it's  deep — you  can't  tell.     The  heart's  the  main  thing, 
and  thank  God,  I'm  right  there.     Carrie,  don't  trifle  with  me. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


THE   CONrESSION. 

[What  the  Maiden  said  to  her  Lover.] 
Vcrsiclcs  for  Lovers  only. 

I. 

A  ND  must  I  tell  thee,  dearest,  that  I  trembled,  when  thy  name 
-^^  Was  uttered  in  our  household,  in  honor,  or  in  blame ; 
And  when  thy  manliness  and  worth  all  voices  echoed  loud, 
I  coined  some  trifling  error,  my  secret  to  enshroud ; 
Some  dust  upon  the  blossom,  on  the  peerless  gem  a  stain, 
A  cloud  in  the  cerulean,  a  shadow  on  the  main. 

II. 

Though  gallant  youths  full  many  might  throng  the  festive  hall, 
One  noble  form  my  partial  eye  could  see  amidst  them  all ; 
Though  suitors  clustered  round  me,  and  worshiped  at  my  shrine, 
A  cold  abstracted  notice,  and  changeless  cheek  were  mine ; 
A  mist,  a  cloud,  o'ershadowed  the  view  of  all  save  thee — 
Oh,  if  the  wise  ones  listened,  what  would  they  think  of  me  ? 

III. 

A  (lull,  dull  weight  was  at  my  heart,  how  sad  the  eve  flew  by, 
If  vainly,  midst  the  motley  crew,  I  sought  thy  speaking  eye ; 
But  mine  the  merry,  merry  heart,  and  thrill  of  maiden  glee. 
If  haply,  in  a  far-off"  group,  I  caught  one  glimpse  of  thee. 
Did  I  mark  thy  hastening  footstep,  oh,  how  I  strove  to  hide 
'J'lic  1cl]-l;i](!  blushes  on  my  cheek,  fretting  my  maiden  pride. 


BETROTHAL.  25 

IV. 

I  dare  not  own,  Confessor,  tliougli  I  remember  well. 

When,  from  a  distant  city,  arrived  a  brilliant  belle; 

Her  manners  so  bewitching,  so  exquisite  her  brow, 

Her  eyes,  the  winning  hazel  hue,  I  think  I  see  them  now. 

How  much  I  feared  those  eyes  would  come  between  my  love 

and  me ! 
I  felt  that  she  was  fair  and  good,  and  almost  worthy  thee ! 

V. 

And  must  I  own.  Confessor,  how  oft  I  strolled  alone. 

And  mused  upon  thy  flattering  speech,  and  most  persuasive 

tone. 
And  marveled  that  thou  didst  not  say  the  words  I  wished  yet 

feared. 
Full  many  a  castle,  fiiir  and  grand,  my  frolic  fancy  reared. 
And    spite   of  bitter,    rankling   words,   good-natured  friends 

might  say. 
My  trusting  heart  forever  found  some  cause  for  thy  delay? 

VI. 

And  yet  full  oft  would  I  resolve,  that  never,  never  more 

One  thought  of  thee  should  haunt  my  mind,  and  conned  it 

o'er  and  o'er, 

A  hopeless  task  indeed  it  was,  such  mandate  to  obey, 

I  counsel  each  young  maiden  such  trial  to  essay ; 

But  when  thy  deep  devotion  no  longer  was  concealed, 

And  jealous  doubts  and  earnest  hopes  thy  changeless  heart 

revealed  j 

VII. 

The  depth  of  joy  which  thrilled  my  soul,  forbade  my  lips  to 

speak. 
But  could  a  lover's  searching  glance  distrust  my  mantling 

cheek ; 

3  B 


2n  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

I  hoped  my  life  might  prove  for  thee  one  long  self-sacrifice, 
And  prayed  that  I  thy  fondest  dreams  might  ever  realize ; 
And  now  are  told,  Confessor,  my  whims  and  follies,  all. 
And  censure  from  the  wise,  I  think,  most  powerless  will  fall ! 

Elizabeth   Austin. 


TAM    GLEN. 

"jl/TY  heart  is  a'  breaking,  dear  Tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len' ; 
To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity, 

But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tarn  Glen  ? 


I'm  thinking,  wi'  sic  a  braw  fellow, 
In  poortith  I  might  mak'  a  fen ; 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow. 
If  I  mauna  marry  Tarn  Glen  ? 

There's  Lowry,  the  laird  of  Dumeller, 
Gude  day  to  you,  brute,  he  comes  ben ; 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  Minnie  does  constantly  deave  me. 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me. 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him. 
He'll  gie  me  gude  hunder  marks  ten; 

But  if  it's  ordained  I  maun  take  him, 
0  wha  will  I  get  but  Tam  Clen? 


BETROTHAL. 

Yestreen  at  the  valentine's  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a  sten; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written  Tarn  Glen ! 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  wanking, 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve  as  ye  ken ; 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 
And  the  very  grey  breeks  o'  Tarn  Glen ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  Tittie,  don't  tarry, 
I'll  gie  you  my  bonnie  black  hen, 
Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
'  The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen ! 


Robert  Burns, 


Women  see  through  Claude  Lorraines. 

R.   W.   Emerson. 


THE   IMPKOVISATKICE. 

T  LOVED  him  as  young  Genius  loves, 

When  its  own  wild  and  radiant  heaven 
Of  starry  thought  burns  with  the  light, 

The  love,  the  life,  by  Genius  given. 
I  loved  him,  too,  as  woman  loves — 

Reckless  of  sorrow,  blame,  or  scorn : 
Life  had  no  evil  destiny 

That,  with  him,  I  would  not  have  borne ! 
I  would  have  rather  been  a  slave. 

In  tears,  in  bondage,  by  his  side. 
Than  shared  in  all,  that,  wanting  him. 

The  world  had  power  to  give  beside ! 


L.   E.   Landon. 


MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


0 


NE  Clairvoyance  on  cartli  is  certain,  and  that  is  the  Clair- 
voyance of  true  love. 


GENEVIEVE. 

A  LL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 

Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame; 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I, 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  1 
She  loves  me  best  when'er  I  sing, 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story; 
An  old  rude  song,  that  fitted  well 
The  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  down-cast  eyes  and  modest  grace. 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 


BETROTHAL.  29 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense. 
Had  tlirilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve. 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  unextinguishable  throng; 
And  gentle  wishes,  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

She  Tvept  with  pity  and  delight; 
She  blushed  with  love  and  maiden  shame; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside. 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepped; 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art. 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see. 
The  beating  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride. 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve — 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride ! 

S.   T.   Coleridge. 


3  * 


30  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


THE   GROOMSMAN   TO   HIS   MISTRESS. 

TT^VERY  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 

Makes  another,  soon  or  late ; 
Never  yet  was  any  marriage 

Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 
But  the  names  were  also  written 

Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 


Blessings  then  upon  the  morning. 
When  my  friend  with  fondest  look. 

By  the  solemn  rites'  persuasion. 
By  himself  a  mistress  took. 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 

Another  two,  within  their  book. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  ofiice, 
Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed. 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride. 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins, 
Who  were  waiting  at  her  side. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her. 
One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair. 

But  nor  fair,  nor  dark,  the  other. 
Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair; 

Neither  dark  nor  fair  I  call  her. 
Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 

AVhile  her  groomsman — shall  I  own  it? 
Yes,  to  thee,  and  only  thee — 


BETROTHAL.  81 

Gazed  upon  the  dark-eyed  maiden, 

Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 
Then  he  thought.     "How  blest  the  bridal 

Were  the  bride  but  such  as  she!" 

Then  I  mused  upon  the  adage, 

Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 
And  I  wondered  as  the  churchman 

Dwelt  upon  the  holy  text; 
Which  of  all  who  heard  the  lesson, 

Should  require  his  service  next. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion. 
For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 

Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady. 
Or,  who  knows,  it  may  be  mine ; 

What  if  'twere — forgive  the  fancy — 
What  if  'twere — both  mine  and  thine? 

T.  W.  Parsons. 


Life  outweighs  all  things,  if  Love  lies  within  it. 


r\  LADY,  trust  the  generous  boy, 
^  His  smiles  are  full  of  light  and  joy, 
And  e'en  his  most  envenomed  dart. 
Is    better   than    a  vacant  heart. 

L.    M.   Child 


32  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


BRINGING   WATER   TKOM   THE   WELL. 

TT'AIILY  oil  a  summer's  morn, 

AVliile  the  lark  was  singing  sweet, 
Came,  beyond  the  ancient  farm-house, 

Sounds  of  lightly  tripping  feet. 
'Twas  a  lowly  cottage  maiden, 

Going,  why,  let  young  hearts  tell. 
With  her  homely  pitcher  laden. 

Fetching^  water  from  the  well. 


Shadows  lay  athwart  the  pathway, 

All  along  the  quiet  lane. 
And  the  breezes  of  the  morning 

Moved  them  to  and  fro  again. 
O'er  the  sunshine,  o'er  the  shadow. 

Passed  the  maiden  of  the  farm. 
With  a  charmed  heart  within  her, 

Thinking  of  no  ill  nor  harm. 

Pleasant,  surely,  were  her  musings, 

For  the  nodding  leaves  in  vain, 
Sought  to  press  their  bright'ning  image 

On  her  ever  busy  brain. 
Leaves  and  joyous  birds  went  by  her. 

Like  a  dim,  half-waking  dream, 
And  her  soul  was  only  conscious 

Of  life's  gladdest  summer  gleam. 

At  the  old  lane's  shady  turning. 
Lay  a  well  of  water  bright, 

Singing  soft  its  hallelujahs 

To  the  gi-acious  morning  light; 


BETROTHAL.  33 

Fern  leaves,  broad,  and  green,  bent  o'er  it, 

Where  its  silver  droplets  fell, 
And  the  fairies  dwelt  beside  it, 

In  the  spotted  fox-glove  bell. 

Back  she  bent  the  shading  fern-leaves. 

Dipped  the  pitcher  in  the  tide — 
Drew  it,  with  the  dripping  waters 

Flowing  o'er  its  glazed  side. 
But  before  her  arm  could  place  it 

On  her  shiny,  wavy  hair, 
By  her  side  a  youth  was  standing ! 

Love  rejoiced  to  see  the  pair. 

Tones  of  tremulous  emotion 

Trailed  upon  the  morning  breeze, 
Gentle  words  of  heart  devotion 

Whispered  'neath  the  ancient  trees. 
But  the  holy,  bless' d  secrets, 

It  becomes  me  not  to  tell : 
Life  had  met  another  meaning — 

Fetching  water  from  the  well ! 

Down  the  rural  lane  they  sauntered, 

He  the  burdened  pitcher  bore ; 
She  with  dewy  eyes  down  looking. 

Grew  more  beauteous  than  before ! 
When  they  neared  the  silent  homestead, 

Up  he  raised  the  pitcher  light. 
Like  a  fitting  crown  he  placed  it 

On  her  head  of  wavelets  bright. 

Emblem  of  the  coming  burdens 

That  for  love  of  him  she'd  bear, 
Calling  every  burden  blessed, 

If  his  love  but  lighten  there ! 
B* 


34  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Then,  still  wavinj^  benedictions, 
Further — further  ofl'  he  drew, 

While  the  shadow  seemed  a  glory 
That  across  the  pathway  grew. 

Now  about  the  household  duties 

Silently  the  maiden  went, 
And  an  ever  radiant  halo 

With  her  daily  life  was  blent. 
Little  knew  the  ancient  matron, 

As  her  feet  like  music  fell, 
What  abimdant  treasure  found  she, 

Fetchiuo:  water  from  the  well. 


I 


N  the  meanest  hut  is  a  romance,  if  you  knew  the  hearts 
there. 

Varnhagen   von   Ense. 


THE   APPEAL. 

AH  !  mother,  cease  to  break  my  heart, 

I  vow  it  now,  I  vowed  it  then — 
The  kiss  he  left  upon  my  lips. 

His  lips  shall  one  day  take  again ! 
Ah,  well  I  mind  the  summer  eve, 

A  low  scud  swept  the  waning  moon. 
And  o'er  the  ripened  clover-lea 

Floated  the  balmy  breath  of  June. 

Among  the  dreamy  woodland  glooms. 
Alone,  we  breathed  our  parting  sighs ; 

Only  the  silent  watching  stars 

Looked  on  tis,  with  their  holy  eyes. 


BETROTHAL.  35 

No  golden  circlet  bound  our  love, 

No  vow  at  saci'cd  altar  given; 
Yet,  in  that  hour,  our  married  souls 

Were  registered  as  one,  in  heaven. 

I  will  not  live,  a  guilty  thing, 

Pillowed  upon  another's  breast, 
While  every  thought  I  send  to  him. 

Shall  scare  God's  angels  from  my  rest ! 
Perjured — before  a  new-born  soul ! 

[If  such  in  holy  trust  were  given,] 
Mother,  /  need  a  clean  white  hand 

To  lead  a  little  child  to  Heaven! 

Oh,  turn  away  your  cruel  eyes ! 

The  gold  you'd  sell  me  for  is  dim; 
What  need  I  bargain  for  the  world? 

I  have  my  full  round  world  in  him. 
Then,  mother,  cease  to  break  my  heart, 

I  vow  it  now,  I  vowed  it  then — 
The  kiss  he  left  upon  my  lips. 

His  lips  shall  one  day  take  again ! 

Sarah   Warner  Brooks, 


SCHULE — LOVE. 

'T^WAS  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part; 
Sweet  time !  sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  schule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
When  baith  bent  doun  owre  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee ! 


36  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

0  mind  ye  how  we  liuug  our  lieads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  seluile-weaus,  laughiu',  said, 

We  decked  thegither  hame  ? 
I've  wandered  east,  I've  wandered  west, 

Through  many  a  weary  way; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  time  of  life's  young  day! 


William   Motherwell. 


LOVE. 

T  OVE  ?   I  will  tell  thee  what  it  is  to  love ! 
-^  It  is  to  build  with  human  thoughts  a  shrine 
Where  hope  sits  brooding  like  a  beauteous  dove; 

Where  Time  seems  young  and  life  a  thing  divine, 
All  tastes,  all  pleasures,  all  desires  combine. 

To  consecrate  this  sanctuary  of  bliss. 
Above,  the  stars  in  shroudless  beauty  shine ; 

Around,  the  streams  their  flowery  margins  kiss, 

And  if  there's  heaven  on  earth,  that  heaven  is  surely  this. 
Yes !  this  is  Love,  the  steadfost  and  the  true, 

The  immortal  glory  wdiich  hath  never  set; 
The  best,  the  brightest  gift  the  heart  e'er  knew ; 

Of  all  life's  sweets,  the  very  sweetest  yet ! 
Oh  I  who  but  can  recall  the  eve  they  met 

To  breathe,  in  some  gi-een  walk,  their  first  young  vow, 
While  summer  flowers  with  moonlight  dews  were  wet. 

And  winds  sighed  soft  around  the  mountain's  brow, 

And  all  was  rapture  then,  which  is  but  mcmori/  now. 

Charles  Swain. 


BETROTHAL.  37 

E  COSA  si  dolce,  1'  esscre  amato ! 


GrLUCHLiCH  allein  ist  die  seele  die  liebt. 

Gothe's   Egmont. 


THE   BKOOKSIDE. 

T  WANDERED  by  the  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  tbe  mill, 
I  could  not  beai"  tbe  brook  flow, 

Tbe  noisy  wheel  was  still. 
There  was  no  bnrr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm  tree ; 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid; 
For  I  listened  for  a  foot-fall, 

I  listened  for  a  word — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not — no,  he  came  not. 

The  night  came  on  alone. 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one. 

Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 
The  evening  air  past  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred; 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


38  3I0SAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind, 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind ! 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer, 

We  did  not  sjieak  a  word; 
But  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


R.   M.   Milnes. 


AN   EXPEDIENCE. 

A    HAPPY  lover  who  has  come, 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell. 
And  learns  her  gone,  and  far  from  home. 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall. 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight. 


Alfred  Tennyson. 


rpiIE  hydden  traynes  I  know,  and  secret  snares  of  Love, 
How  soone  a  luke  will  prynte  a  thoughte  that  never  may 
remove. 

Howard — Earl  of  Surry. 


/^NE  of  the  most  wonderful  things  in  nature,  is  a  glance;  it 
^  transcends  speecli ;  it  is  the  bodily  symbol  of  identity. 

R.    W.    Emerson. 


BETROTHAL.  39 


THE   PICTURE   AT   THE   EOUNTAIN. 

TnENELI  leaned  her  head  upon  the  breast  of  him  whom  she 
accepted  thus  as  her  husband.  As  the  waves  of  the  fountain 
succeeded  each  other,  pure  and  limpid,  so  the  certainty  of  his 
happiness  floated  into  the  heart  of  XJlrie.  He  pressed  the 
young  girl  gently  in  his  arms.  What  he  said  first  was  lost  in 
the  murmuring  of  the  water;  then  the  fountain  heard,  "Will 
you  be  mine  ?"  "  Yes,  forever."  It  heard  other  things  besides, 
but  it  has  never  repeated  them. 

Jeremias  GoUhelf. 


n^HE  supreme  happiness  of  life  is  the  conviction  that  we  are 
loved;  loved  for  ourselves — say  rather,  loved  in  spite  of 
ourselves. 

Victor   Hugo. 

•  E  loyal  to  thy  luver  trew, 
And  nevir  change  hir  for  a  new ; 
If  gude  and  fayre,  of  hir  have  care, 
A  woman's  banning's  wondrous  sair. 

Anne   Boswell. 


Love  sought,  is  good;  but  given  unsought,  is  better. 

Twelfth  Night — Act  III.,  Scene  I. 


TO 


n^OO  late  I  staid — forgive  the  crime 

The  minutes  flew  like  hours : 
How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time ! 
That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 


40  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

•Oh !  who  to  sober  measurement 

Time's  happy  swiftness  brings, 
When  birds  of  Paradise  have  lent 

Their  plumage  for  his  wings ! 

William   R.   Spencer. 


ASSOCIATION. 

Lorenzo.  You  came  to  Mantua? 

Mariana.  What  could  I  do? 

Cot,  garden,  vineyard,  rivulet,  and  wood. 
Lake,  sky,  and  mountain,  went  alo)ig  with  him  ! 
Could  I  remain  behind  ?     I  followed  him 
To  Mantua !  to  breathe  the  air  he  breathed, 
To  walk  upon  the  ground  he  walked  upon, 
To  look  upon  the  things  he  looked  upon. 
To  look,  perchance,  on  him ! 

J.   S.   Knowles. 


A   TALISMAN. 

[I  love  thee,  and  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee.] 

p.   B.  Shelley. 

A   WOMAN'S   QUESTION. 

T)EFOKR  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  in  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  future  give 

Color  and  form  to  mine. 
Before  I  peril    all    for  thee,  question    thy  soul    to-night  for 
me. 


BETROTHAL.  41 

I  break  all  sligliter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret; 
Is  there  cue  link  within  the  Past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet? 
Or  is  thy  Faith  as  clear  and  free  as  that  which  I  can  pledge 
to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine, 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouched,  unshared  by  mine? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost,  oh,  tell  me  before  all  is  lost. 

Look  deeper  still.     If  thou  canst  feel 

Within  thy  inmost  soul, 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back. 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole; 
Let   no   false   pity  spare   the   blow,  but  in   true  mercy  tell 
me  so. 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  cannot  fulfil  ? 
One  chord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  break  or  still  ? 
Speak  now — lest  at  some  future  day  my  whole  life  wither  and 
decay. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon-spirit  Change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still, 

On  all  things  new  and  strange? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone — ^but  shield  my  heart  against 
thy  own. 
4  » 


42  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Couldst  thou  witlidraw  tliy  hand  one  day, 

And  answer  to  my  claim, 
That  Fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake — 

Not  thou — had  been  to  bhime  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus ;  but  thou  wilt  surely  warn 
and  save  me  now. 

Nay,  answer  not — I  dare  not  hear, 

The  words  would  come  too  late; 
Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse, 

So  comfort  thee,  my  Fate; 
Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall,  remember,  I  ivonJd  risk  it 
all. 

Adelaide  A.  Proctor, 


CHOICE  or  A  wirE. 

"\T7HEN  it  shall  please  God  to  bring  thee  to  man's  estate, 
use  great  providence  and  circumspection  in  choosing  thy 
wife.  For  from  thence  will  spring  all  thy  future  good  or  evil ; 
and  it  is  an  action  of  life,  like  unto  a  stratagem  of  war; 
wherein  a  man  can  err  but  once  ! 

Sir  Philip  Sydney. 


MAKKIAGE. 

rPHOSE  awful  words,  "  Till  death  do  part,' 

INIay  well  alarm  the  youthful  heart : 
No  after-thought  when  once  a  wife; 
The  die  is  cast,  and  cast  for  life; 
Yet  thousands  venture  every  day, 
As  some  base  passion  leads  the  way. 


I 


BETROTHAL.  43 

Pert  kSylvia  talks  of  wedlock-scenes, 
Thougli  scarcely  entered  on  lier  teens; 
Smiles  on  her  whining  spark,  and  hears 
His  sugared  siieech  with  raptured  ears; 
Impatient  of  a  parent's  rule, 
She  quits  her  sire,  and  weds  a  fool. 
Want  enters  at  the  guardless  door, 
And  love  is  fled,  to  come  no  more. 
Some  few  there  are  of  sordid  mould. 
Who  barter  youth  and  bloom  for  gold; 
Careless  with  what,  or  whom  they  mate, 
Their  ruling  passion's  all  for  state. 
But  Hymen,  generous,  just,  and  kind, 
Abhors  the  mercenary  mind; 
Such  rebels  groan  beneath  his  rod, 
For  Hymen's  a  vindictive  god. 
'Tis  an  important  point  to  know. 
There's  no  perfection  here  below, 
Man's  an  odd  compound,  after  all. 
And  ever  has  been  since  the  fall. 
Say,  that  he  loves  you  from  his  soul. 
Still  man  is  proud,  nor  brooks  control; 
And  though  a  slave  in  Love's  soft  school. 
In  wedlock  claims  his  right  to  rule. 
The  best,  in  short,  has  faults  about  him, 
If  few  those  faults,  you  must  not  flout  him ; 
With  some,  indeed,  you  can't  dispense, 
As  want  of  temper^  ivant  of  sense. 

Vision   VII.  on   Marriage — Nathaniel   Cotton. 


CHOSE  my  wife  as  she  did  her  wedding  gown,  for  qualities 
that  would  wear  well. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


44  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

T7R03I  my  experience,  not  one  in  twenty  marries  the  first 
love ;  we  build  statues  of  snow,  and  weep  to  see  tliem  melt. 

Walter  Scott. 


T 


0  know,  to  esteem,  to  love,  and  then  to  part, 
Makes  uji  life's  tale  to  many  a  feeling  heart. 


LOVE   WILL   riND    OUT   XML   WAY. 

/  \VER  the  mountains,. 
And  over  the  waves; 
Under  the  fountains, 

And  under  the  graves; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 

Which  Neptune  obey; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie; 
Where  there  is  no  place 

For  receipt  of  a  fly; 
Where  the  midge  dare  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay ; 
If  love  come,  he  will  enter. 

And  soon  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  esteem  him 

A  child  for  his  might; 
Or  you  may  deem  him 

A  coward  from  his  flight; 


BETROTHAL. 

But  if  slie,  whom  Love  doth  honor, 
Be  concealed  from  the  day, 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her. 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him 

By  having  him  confined, 
And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  thing,  to  be  blind; 
But  if  ne'er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 

Do  the  best  that  you  may, 
Blind  love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 

Will  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  train  the  eagle 

To  stoop  to  your  fist; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 

The  phenix  of  the  east; 
The  lioness,  ye  may  move  her 

To  give  o'er  her  prey ; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover : 

He  will  find  out  his  way. 


45 


Percy's   Reliques. 


THE  ANNOYEK. 

TTE  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 
-^      And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer. 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man, 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky. 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


N.   P.   Willis. 


46  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

BKIBAL  SONG, 

To  my  Sister  on  the  Morning  of  her  Marriage. 


G 


"1  OLDEN  in  thy  youtli,  Lizzie, 
Golden  in  tliy  prime, 
Golden  wilt  thou  be,  Lizzie, 
In  the  olden  time. 

Linger  on  the  stile,  Lizzie, 
Back  and  forth  glance  free ; 

Listen  while  I  sing,  Lizzie, 
Bridal  song  for  thee. 

Wildly  music  swept,  Lizzie, 

O'er  thy  dewy  dawn; 
Mellowed  now,  but  yet,  Lizzie, 

Sweet  as  in  its  morn. 

Gently,  bravely  borne,  Lizzie, 
Life's  past  scenes  of  woe; 

With  the  lesson  fraught,  Lizzie, 
Safely  onward  go. 

Wisdom  calmly  wends,  Lizzie, 

Sadly,  nor  in  glee ; 
Be  not  all  too  wise,  Lizzie, 

Laughter  loveth  thee. 

Sandals  shod  with  lead,  Lizzie, 
Lengthen  out  the  way; 

But  the  light  heart  lives,  Lizzie, 
Lend  thee  to  its  sway. 


BETROTHAL.  47 

Merry  make  the  Manse,  Lizzie, 

Sinners  save  by  smiles ; 
Saints  may  not  withstand,  Lizzie, 

Woman's  winning  wiles. 

Tell  it  not  in  Gath,  Lizzie, 

Nor  in  Askalon, 
That  I  dream  and  rhyme,  Lizzie, 

For  my  lay  is  done. 

Mistress  coy  is  Law,  Lizzie, 

Brooketh  rival  none; 
Laughs  to  scorn  the  Muse,  Lizzie, 

So  my  lay  is  done. 

Henry   D.  Austin. 


THE   TATHEK'S   LAMENT. 

nPHUS  it  is  our  daughters  leave  us. 

Those  we  love,  and  those  who  love  us; 
Just  when  they  have  learned  to  help  us, 
When  we  are  old  and  lean  upon  them, 
Comes  a  youth  with  flaunting  feathers. 
With  his  flute  of  reeds,  a  stranger. 
Wanders  piping  through  the  village, 
Beckons  to  the  fairest  maiden. 
And  she  follows  where  he  leads  her. 
Leaving  all  things  for  the  stranger. 

H.  W.  Longfellow, 


THE   BIRIDAL — A   PICTURE. 

A  LIVE  with  eyes,  the  village  sees 
The  Bridal  dawning  from  the  trees, 
And  housewives  swarm  i'  the  sun  like  bees 


48  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Love's  lovely  to  tlie  passer-by, 

But  tliey  who  love  are  regioued  high 

On  hills  of  bliss  with  heaven  nigh. 

The  Blessing  given,  the  ring  is  on 
And  at  God's  altar  radiant  run 
The  currents  of  two  lives  in  one ! 


T?ROM  the  sky  the  sun,  benignant. 

Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches. 
Saying  to  them,  "  Oh,  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  hate  is  shallow, 
Life  is  checkered  shade  and  sunshine; 
Rule  by  love,  0  Hiawatha !" 
From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them, 
Filled  the  lodge  with  mystic  splendor. 
Whispered  to  them,  "  Oh,  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble : 
Half  is  mine,  although  I  follow; 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  "Water." 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


WEDDED    LIFE. 


49 


WEDDED  LIFE. 


Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 
Oh  gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 
And  safe  from  all  adversity, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be ! 
For  gentleness,  and  love,  and  trust. 
Prevail  o'er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 
And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives, 
Something  immortal  still  survives  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 

To  be  man's  tender  mate  was  woman  born, 
And,  in  obeying  nature,  she  best  serves 
The  purposes  of  Heaven. 

SCHILLEE. 


DOST  THOU  KEMEMBEK? 

"VT7HEN  shall  we  come  to  that  deliglitful  day 

When  each  can  say  to  each,  "Dost  thou  remember?" 
Let  us  fill  urns  with  rose  leaves  in  our  May, 
And  hive  the  thrifty  sweetness  for  December  ? 


For  who  may  deem  the  reign  of  love  secure, 
Till  in  a  mighty  past  is  built  his  throne ; 

Hope  is  a  star  each  vapor  can  obscure. 
Memory  the  only  empire  all  her  own. 

51 


52  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"Tis  the  heart's  home  to  have  a  world,  in  time 
Of  hai)2jy  thoughts  that  we  have  known  before, 

Hearing,  in  common  words,  the  holy  chime 

Of  those  sweet  Sabbath-bells — the  dreams  of  yore. 

Oft  dost  thoii  ask  me,  with  that  bashful  eye, 
"  If  I  shall  love  thee  evermore  as  now  t" 

Feasting  as  fondly  on  the  sure  reply, 
As  if  my  lips  were  virgin  of  the  vow ! 

Sweet  does  that  question,  "  Wilt  thou  love  me  ?"  fall 
Upon  the  heart  that  has  forsworn  its  will ; 

But  when  the  words  hereafter  we  recall, 

"  Dost  thou  remember  ?" — shall  be  sweeter  still ! 


A   CAUTION. 

"I7V'N  in  the  happiest  choice,  where  favoring  Heaven 

Has  equal  love  and  easy  fortune  given, 
Think  not,  the  husband  gained,  that  all  is  done : 
The  prize  of  happiness  must  still  be  won : 
And  oft  the  careless  find  it  to  their  cost, 
The  lover  in  the  huahand  may  be  lost; 
The  graces  might  alone  his  heart  allure; 
Tliey^  and  the  virtues  meeting  must  secure. 
Let  ev'n  your  prudence  wear  the  pleasing  dress 
Of  care  for  liim^  and  anxious  tenderness. 
From  kind  concern  about  his  weal  or  woe, 
Let  each  domestic  duty  seem  to  flow. 
Endearing  still  the  common  acts  of  life. 
The  mistress  still  shall  charm  him  in  the  wife; 
And  wrinkled  face  shall  unobserved  come  on, 
Before  his  eye  perceives  one  beauty  gone. 

Lord  George   Lyttleton. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  53 

'\T7'ER  sicli  niclit  achtet,  ehrt  jdie  Fravien  niclit, 

Wer  niclit  die  Frauen  ehrt,  kennt  er  die  Liebe  ? 
Wor  niclit  die  Liebe  kennt,  kennt  er  die  Ebre  ? 
Wer  nicbt  die  Ehre  kennt,  was  bat  er  nocli  ? 

Leopold  Schefer. 


T  SHOULD  not  love  tbee,  dear,  so  mucb, 
Loved  I  not  lienor  more. 

Percy's    Reliques. 


BAKKEY'S    COUNSEL  TO   THE   NEWLY   MAKKIED. 

"ly /TY  cbil'rcn,  lub  one  anoder ;  bar  wid  one  anoder ;  be  faith- 
ful ter  one  anoder.  You  hab  started  on  a  long  journey ; 
many  rougb  places  am  in  de  road ;  many  trubbles  will  spring 
up  by  de  wayside ;  but  gwo  on  band  an'  band  togedder ;  lub 
one  anoder,  an'  no  matter  wbat  come  enter  you,  you  will  be 
bappy — fur  lub  will  sweeten  ebery  sorrer,  lighten  ebery  load, 
make  de  sun  shine  in  eben  de  bery  cloudiest  wedder.  I  knows 
it  will,  my  chil'ren,  'case  I'se  been  ober  de  groun'.  Ole  Aggy 
an'  I  bab  trabbled  de  road.  Hand  in  hand  we  hab  gone  ober 
de  rocks ;  fru  de  mud ;  in  de  hot  burning  sand ;  been  out 
togedder  in  de  cole,  an'  de  rain,  an'  de  storm,  fur  nigh  enter 
forty  yar,  but  we  hab  clung  ter  one  anoder ;  an'  fru  ebery  ting 
in  de  bery  darkest  days,  de  sun  ob  joy  an'  peace  hab  broke  fru 
de  clouds,  an'  sent  him  bressed  rays  inter  our  hearts.  We 
started  jess  like  two  young  saplin's  you's  seed  a  growin  side 
by  side  in  de  woods.  At  fust  we  seemed  'way  part  fur  de 
brambles,  an'  de  tick  bushes,  an'  de  ugly  forns — [dem  war  our 
bad  ways] — war  atween  us;  but  lub,  like  de  sun,  shone  down 
on  us,  'an  we  grow'd.  We  grow'd  till  our  heads  got  above  de 
bushes;  till  dis  little  branch,  an'  dat  little  branch — dem  war 
5  » 


54  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

our  holy  feelin's — jnit  out  toward  one  anoder,  an'  we  come 
closer  an'  closer  togedder.  An'  dough  we  'm  ole  trees  now,  an' 
sometime  de  wind  blow,  an'  de  storm  rage  fru  de  tops,  an' 
freaten  ter  tear  off  de  limbs,  an'  tcr  pull  up  de  bery  roots,  we'm 
growin  closer  an'  closer,  an'  nearer  an'  nearer  togedder  ebery 
day — an'  soon  de  ole  tops  will  meet ;  soon  de  ole  branches,  all 
cubered  ober  wid  de  gray  moss,  will  twine  roun'  one  anoder ; 
soon  de  two  ole  trees  will  come  togedder,  an'  grow  inter  one 
foreber — grow  inter  one  up  dar  in  de  sky,  whar  de  wind  neber 
'11  blow,  whar  de  storm  neber  '11  beat;  whar  we  shill  blossom 
an'  bar  fruit  ter  de  glory  ob  de  Lord,  an'  in  His  heabenly 
kingdom  foreber !     Amen. 

Edmund   Kirke. 


THE   POET'S   SONG  TO   HIS   WIFE. 

k  \  I   MY  love's  like  the  steadfast  sun, 

•   Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 
Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears; 
Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain. 
Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain; 
Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  which  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes. 
Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee 
One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I  muse,  I  see  thee  sit 
In  maiden  bloom,  and  matron  wit; 
Fair,  gentle,  as  when  first  I  sued 
Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood ; 
Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 
As  when,  beneath  Arbi"land  tree 


WEDDED  LIFE.  55 

We  staid  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 

Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  lingered  'mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond,  and  words  wei'e  few. 

Though  I  see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet; 
And  time  and  care  and  birth-time  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye,  and  touched  thy  rose ; 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee  belong- 
All  that  charms  me  of  tale  or  song; 
When  words  come  down  like  dews  unsought 
With  gleams  of  deep  enthusiast  thought; 
And  fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free^ — 
They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

0,  when  more  thought  we  gave  of  old 

To  silver  than  some  give  to  gold, 

'Twas  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o'er 

What  things  should  deck  our  humble  bower ! 

'Twas  sweet  to  pull  in  hope,  with  thee, 

The  golden  fruit  from  fortune's  tree; 

And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 

A  garland  for  these  locks  of  thine; 

A  song-wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 

While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  are  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought; 
When  fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light; 
And  hope,  that  decks  the  peasant's  bower, 
Shines  like  the  rainbow  through  the  shower; 
0,  then,  I  see,  while  seated  nigh, 
A  mother's  heart  shine  in  thy  eye; 


66  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

And  proud  resolve,  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak — 
I  think  the  wedded  wife  of  mine 
The  best  of  all  that's  not  divine ! 

Allan  Cunningham. 


TO   MY   WIPE, 

On  the  Ninth  Anniversary  of  her  Marriage. 

"VriNE  years  ago  you  came  to  me, 

And  nestled  on  my  breast, 
A  soft  and  winged  mystery 

That  settled  here  to  rest; 
And  my  heart  rocked  its  Babe  of  bliss, 

And  soothed  its  Child  of  air, 
With  something  'twixt  a  song  and  kiss, 

To  keep  it  nestling  there. 

At  first  I  thought  the  fairy  form 

Too  spirit-soft  and  good 
To  fill  my  poor,  low  nest  with  warm 

And  wifely  womanhood. 
But  such  a  cozy  peep  of  home 

Did  your  dear  eyes  unfold; 
And  in  their  deep  and  dewy  gloom. 

What  tales  of  love  were  told ! 

In  dreamy  curves  your  beauty  drooped. 

As  tendrils  lean  to  twine, 
And  very  graciously  they  stooped 

To  bear  tlieir  fruit,  my  Vine ! 


WEDDED  LIFE.  bl 

To  bear  sucli  blessed  fruit  of  love 

As  tenderly  increased 
Among  the  ripe  vine-bunclies  of 

Your  balmy-breathing  breast. 

"We  cannot  boast  to  have  bickered  not, 

Since  you  and  I  were  wed; 
We  have  not  lived  the  smoothest  lot, 

Nor  found  the  downiest  bed  1 
Time  hath  not  passed  o'er  head  in  stars. 

And  under  foot  in  flowers. 
With  wings  that  slept  on  fragrant  airs 

Thro'  all  the  happy  hours. 

It  is  our  way,  more  fate  than  fault. 

Love's  cloudy  fire  to  clear; 
To  find  some  virtue  in  the  salt 

That  sparkles  in  a  tear ! 
Pray  Grod  it  all  come  right  at  last. 

Pray  Grod  it  so  befall. 
That  when  our  day  of  life  is  past. 

The  end  may  crown  it  all. 

Gerald   Wlassey. 


A   QUESTION. 

T\ID  I  but  purpose  to  embark  with  thee 

On  the  smooth  surface  of  a  summer's  sea. 
While  gentle  zephyrs  blow  with  prosperous  gales, 
And  fortune's  favors  fill  the  swelling  sails. 
But  would  forsake  the  ship  and  make  the  shore 
When  the  winds  whistle  and  the  tempests  roar  ? 

Matthew  Pryor. 
C   » 


58  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


TEN   YEAKS   AGO. 

'I'^EN  years  ago,  ten  years  ago, 

Life  was  to  us  a  fairy  scene; 
And  the  keen  blasts  of  worldly  woe 

Had  scared  not  then  its  pathway  green. 
Youth  and  its  thousand  dreams  were  ours, 

Feelings  we  ne'er  can  know  again ; 
Uuwithered  hopes,  unwasted  powers, 

And  frames  unworn  by  mortal  pain : 
Such  was  the  bright  and  genial  flow 
Of  life  with  us — ten  years  ago ! 

Time  has  not  blanched  a  single  hair 

That  clusters  round  thy  forehead  nowj 
Nor  hath  the  cankering  touch  of  care 

Left  even  one  furrow  on  thy  brow. 
Thine  eyes  are  blue  as  when  we  met, 

In  love's  deep  truth,  in  earlier  years; 
Thy  cheek  of  rose  is  blooming  yet. 

Though  sometimes  stained  by  secret  tears; 
But  where,  oh !  where's  the  spirit's  glow, 
That  shone  through  all — ten  years  ago? 

I,  too,  am  changed — I  scarce  know  why — 

Can  feel  each  flagging  pulse  decay; 
And  youth  and  health,  and  visions  high. 

Melt  like  a  wreath  of  snow  away; 
Time  cannot  sure  have  wrought  the  ill; 

Though  worn  in  this  world's  sickening  strife, 
In  soul  and  form,  I  linger  still 

In  the  first  summer  month  of  life; 
Yet  journey  on  my  path  below. 
Oh  !   how  unlike — ten  years  ago  ! 


WEDDED  LIFE. 

But  look  not  thus :  I  would  not  give 

The  wreck  of  hojies  that  thou  must  share, 
To  bid  those  joyous  hours  revive 

When  all  around  me  seemed  so  fair. 
We've  wandered  on  in  sunny  weather, 

When  winds  wei'e  low,  and  flowers  in  bloom, 
And  hand  in  hand  have  kept  together, 

And  still  will  keep,  'mid  storm  and  gloom; 
Endeared  by  ties  we  could  not  know 
When  life  was  young — ten  years  ago ! 

Has  fortune  frowned  ?     Her  frowns  were  vain. 

For  hearts  like  ours  she  could  not  chill ; 
Have  friends  proved  false  ?     Their  love  might  wane, 

But  ours  grew  fonder,  firmer  still. 
Twin  barks  on  this  world's  changing  wave, 

Steadfast  in  calms,  in  tempests  tried; 
In  concert  still  our  fate  we'll  brave, 

Together  cleave  life's  fitful  tide ; 
Nor  mourn,  whatever  winds  may  blow. 
Youth's  first  wild  dreams — ten  years  ago ! 

Have  we  not  knelt  beside  his  bed, 

And  watched  our  first-born  blossom  die  ? 
Hoped,  till  the  shade  of  hope  had  fled. 

Then  wept  till  feeling's  fount  was  dry  ? 
Was  it  not  sweet,  in  that  dark  hour. 

To  think,  'mid  mutual  tears  and  sighs. 
Our  bud  had  left  its  earthly  bower, 

And  burst  to  bloom  in  Paradise  ? 
What  to  the  thought  that  soothed  that  woe 
W^ere  heartless  joys — ten  years  ago  ? 

Yes,  it  is  sweet,  when  heaven  is  bright. 
To  share  its  sunny  beams  with  thee ; 


GO  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  sweeter  fai*,  'mid  clouds  and  blight, 
To  have  thee  near  to  weep  with  me. 

Then  dry  those  tears — though  something  changed 
From  what  we  were  in  earlier  youth, 

Time,  that  hath  hopes  and  friends  estranged, 
Hath  left  us  love  in  all  its  truth ; 

Sweet  feelings  we  could  not  forego 

For  life's  best  joys — ten  years  ifgo. 


Alaric  A.  Watts. 


"VrOTHINGr  flatters  a  man  so  much  as  the  happiness  of  his 
wife;  he  is  always  proud  of  himself  as  the  soui'ce  of  it. 
The  tear  of  a  loving  girl,  says  an  old  book,  is  like  a  dew-drop 
on  the  rose ;  but  that  on  the  cheek  of  a  ivife  is  a  drop  of  poison 
to  her  husband. 

Moser. 


TTAPPY,  happier  far  than  thou, 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow. 
She  that  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lovely  but  to  one  on  earth ! 


Mrs.  Hemans. 


Love  knows  no  measure,  has  no  grave. 


Love  makes  all  things  possible. 


Italian, 


Lamerals. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  61 

TF  wc  really  love  a  persou,  let  him  be  thousands  of  miles 
away,  he  is  at  the  end  of  our  eyes  ! 

Hindoo  Saying. 


n^IIOU  art  not  goue  being  gone,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  leav'st  in  him  thy  watchful  eyes,  in  him  thy  loviiij 
heart. 


GOOD   AND    BAD   SPIRITS. 

Bad  Spirits — 

Think  on  what  thou  hast  given  up !  think  on  thy  own 
merits  !  Thou  canst  annoy ;  thou  canst  punish.  Take  refuge 
in  thy  nerves,  in  unkindness;  make  use  of  thy  power,  and 
enjoy  the  pleasure  of  revenge  ! 

GrooD  Spirits — 

Think  on  thy  wants,  on  thy  faults.  Recollect  all  the  patience, 
all  the  kindness,  all  the  tenderness,  which  has  been  shown 
thee  !  Think  on  thy  husband's  worth,  on  his  beautiful,  noble 
qualities.  Think  also  on  life,  how  short  it  is;  how  much 
unavoidable  bitterness  it  possesses ;  how  much  which  it  is  easy 
either  to  bear  or  chase  away;  and  think  how  the  power  of 
affection  can  make  all  things  right. 

Frederika   Brenner. 


^TTHO  are  they.,  that  in  one  path  have  journeyed,  needing 

not  forgiveness  at  its  close  ? 


rpWO  consorts  must  be  very  two,  before  they  can  be  very 
one. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 
6 


62  mosaiujS  of  life. 

Two  consorts  in  heaven  are  not  two,  but  one  augel. 

Swedenborg. 


"ly/pARRIAGE   is  not  like  the  hill  Olympus,  wholly  clear, 

Thomas  Fuller. 


VI 

without  clouds, 


MUTUAL   rOKBEAKANCE. 

'T^HE  kindest  and  the  happiest  pair, 

Will  have  occasion  to  forbear, 
And  something,  every  day  they  live 
To  pity,  and  perhaps,  forgive. 
The  love  that  cheers  life's  latest  stage, 
Proof  against  sickness  and  old  age, 
Is  gentle,  delicate,  and  kind, 
To  faults  compassionate  or  blind; 
And  will  with  sympathy  endure 
Those  evils  it  would  gladly  cure. 


William  Cowper. 


ri  IVE  me  next  good,  an  understanding  wife, 

]5y  nature  wise,  not  learned  by  much  art, 

Some  knowledge  on  her  part,  will,  all  her  life, 

More  scope  of  conversation  impart; 
Besides  her  inborn  virtue  fortify. 
They  are  most  firmly  good,  who  best  know  why. 

"  The   Wife." — Sir   Thomas  Overbury. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  63 


SUCK   A   ONE   AS   HE   WOULD   LOVE. 

A    FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well, 

Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold ; 
With  gladsome  chere,  all  grief  for  to  expel, 

With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that  it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can  tell; 

The  trees,  also,  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit,  and  these,  might  chance  I  might  be  tied, 
And  knit  again  the  knot  that  should  not  slide. 

Sir  Thomas   Wyatt 


From  "MANUEL   DES  PECHES." 

■VrOTHING  is  to  man  so  dear. 

As  woman's  love  in  good  manner. 
A  good  woman  is  man's  bliss, 
Where  her  love  right  and  steadfast  is. 
There  is  no  solace  under  heaven, 
Of  all  that  a  man  may  neven ; 
That  should  a  man  so  much  glew. 
As  a  good  woman  that  loveth  true ; 
No  dearer  is  none  in  God's  hurd, 
Than  a  chaste  woman  with  lovely  word. 

William  de  Wadington,  translated  by   Robert  Manning. 


rpHERE'S  nae  place  sae  sweet  as  one's  ain  fireside, 
With  kind  friends  to  cheer  me,  and  gay  ones  to  glad ; 
I  can  laugh  when  I'm  merry  and  sing  when  I'm  sad, 
■  Oh,  there's  nae  place  sae  sweet  as  one's  ain  fireside ! 

Old  Song. 


64  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


AN   ANGEL   IN   THE   HOUSE. 
TTOW  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
Au  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine  eyes,  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
News  of  dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead,  indeed,  as  we  shall  know  for  ever. 
Alas !     We  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearts — angels  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will,  and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  ours  to  meet  in  happy  air — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

Leigh    Hunt. 


TTUMAN  life  is  a  constant  want,  and  ought  to  be  a  constant 
prayer. 

S.  Osgood. 


0 


NLY  so  far  as  a  man  is  happily  married  to  himself,  is  he  fit 
for  married  life  and  family  life,  generally. 


AIRT  or  PUTTING  THINGS. 
rpiIEllE  is  no  more  sunshiny  inmate  of  any  home  than  the 
-^  genial  happy-tempered  one  who  has  the  art  of  putting  all 
things  in  a  pleasant  light,  from  the  great  misfortunes  of  life, 
down  to  a  broken  carriage  spring,  a  servant's  failings,  a  child's 
salts  and  senna. 

Boyd. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  65 

A  LL  persons  are  not  discreet  enougli  to  know  liow  to  take 
things  by  the  right  handle. 

Cervantes. 


TO   MY   BIKDIE. 

TTE  ken  when  folks  are  paired,  Birdie !  ye  ken  when  folks 
are  paired, 
Life's  fair  and  foul,  and  freakish  weather, 
An'  light  an'  lumbering  loads,  thegither 

Maun  a'  be  shared; 
An'  shared  with  lovin'  hearts,  Birdie !  wi'  levin'  hearts  and 
free, 
Fu'  fashious  loads  may  weel  be  borne ; 
An'  roughest  roads  to  velvet  turn, 

Trod  cheerfully. 

Caroline  Southey. 


A   WARNING. 

A  S  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;  if  mated  with  a  clown, 

The  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee 
down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel 

force. 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


06  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


TKirLES,   NOT   TKirLES. 

"  XfOTHTNGr  is  a  trifie  which  is  displeasing  to  my  friend." 
Ah !  If  everybody  thought  so,  there  would  not  so  often 
arise  that  dull  had  weather,  those  clouded  feelings,  those  little 
bitter  disagreeables,  by  which  not  only  married  people,  but 
brothers  and  sisters,  parents  and  children,  by  degrees,  embitter 
one  another's  lives,  and  which  create  altogether  that  gi-eat 
grey  heavy  oppressive  cXoudi— ^discomfort.  A  fly  is  a  very 
light  burden ;  but  if  it  were  perpetually  to  return  and  settle 
on  one's  nose,  it  might  weary  us  of  our  very  lives ;  and  by  the 
side  of  this  we  would  inscribe  upon  the  tablets  of  Home. 
"  Nothing  is  insignificant  which  gives  pleasure  to  our  friend !" 
Because,  from  this  arises  that  bright  summer-mild  atmosphere 
in  the  home,  which  is  called  comfort. 

Frederika  Bremer. 


THE   LENT   UMBRELLA. 

"  "TvO  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle?  I  say,  do  you  hear 
the  rain  ?  and  you've  lent  that  man  our  only  umbrella ! 
Take  rold^  indeed !  He  doesn't  look  like  one  of  the  sort  to 
take  cold.  Besides,  he'd  better  have  taken  cold  than  taken 
our  umbrella.  He  return  the  umbrella  ?  As  if  anybody  ever 
did  return  an  umbrella.  I  should  like  to  know  how  the  chil- 
dren are  to  go  to  school  to-morrow.  They  shan't  go  through 
such  weather,  I'm  determined.  No ;  they  shall  stay  at  home, 
and  never  learn  anything — the  blessed  creatures — sooner  than 
go  and  get  wet;  and  when  they  grow  up,  I  wonder  who  they'll 
have  to  thank  for  knowing  nothing — who,  indeed,  but  their 
own    fjithi-r.      People   wIki    can't    feel    fur   their  own   children 


WEDDED  LIFE.  67 

ought  never  to  be  fathers.  But  I  know  why  you  lent  the 
umbrella.  Oh,  yes;  I  know  very  well.  I  was  going  out  to 
tea  at  dear  mother's  to-morrow ;  you  know  that,  and  you  did  it 
on  purpose.  Don't  tell  me ;  you  hate  me  to  go  there,  and  take 
every  mean  advantage  to  hinder  me.  But  don't  you  think  it, 
Mr.  Caudle.  No,  sir ;  if  it  comes  down  in  buckets-ful,  I'll  go 
all  the  same.     No;  and  I  won't  have  a  cab. 

"Where  do  you  think  the  money's  to  come  from?  A  cab, 
indeed  !  Cost  me  sixteen  pence  at  least — sixteen  pence — two 
and  eight  pence,  for  there's  back  again  !  Cabs,  indeed !  I 
should  like  to  know  who's  to  pay  for  'em.  I  can't  pay  for  'em  ; 
and  I'm  sure  you  can't,  if  you  go  on  as  you  do;  throwing 
away  your  property,  and  beggaring  your  children — buying 
umbrellas ! 

"  Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ?  I  say,  do  you  hear  it  ? 
But  I  don't  care;  I'll  go  to  mother's  to-morrow;  I  will,  and, 
what's  more,  I'll  walk  every  step  of  the  way,  and  you  know 
that  will  give  me  my  death.  Don't  call  me  Vi  foolish  woman; 
it's  you  that's  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I  can't  wear  clogs ; 
and  with  no  umbrella,  the  wet's  sure  to  give  me  a  cold — it 
always  does.  But  what  do  you  care  for  that  ?  Nothing  at 
all.  I  may  be  laid  up,  for  what  you  care,  as  I  dare  say  I  shall ; 
and  a  pretty  doctor's  bill  there'll  be.  I  hope  there  will !  It 
will  teach  you  to  lend  your  umbrella  again.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  I  caught  my  death.  Yes;  and  that's  what  you  lent  the 
umbrella  for.  Of  course  !  Nice  clothes  I  shall  get,  too,  trape- 
sing through  weather  like  this.  My  gown  and  bon*net  will  be 
spoilt  quite.  Needn't  I  wear  'em  then  ?  Indeed,  Mr.  Caudle, 
I  shall  wear  'em.  No,  sir,  I'm  not  going  out  a  dowdy  to  please 
you,  or  anybody  else.  Gracious  knows  'tisn't  often  that  I  step 
over  the  threshold ;  indeed  I  might  as  well  be  a  slave  at  once ; 
better,  I  should  say.  But  when  I  go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  choose 
to  go  out  as  a  lady.  Oh  !  that  rain,  if  it  isn't  enough  to  break 
in  the  windows. 


68  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"  Ugli  I  T  do  look  forward  with  dread  for  to-morrow  !  IIow 
I  am  to  go  to  mother's,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell.  But  if  I  die, 
I'll  do  it.  No,  sir,  I  won't  borrow  an  umbrella.  No,  and  you 
shan't  buy  one.  (With  great  emphasis) — Mr.  Caudle,  if  you 
bring  home  another  umbrella,  I'll  throw  it  in  the  street.  I'll 
have  my  own  umbrella,  or  none  at  all.  Ha !  and  it  was  only 
last  week  I  had  a  new  nozzle  put  to  that  umbrella.  I'm  sure 
if  I  had  known  as  much  as  I  do  now,  it  might  have  gone 
without  one  for  me.  Paying  for  new  nozzles  for  other  people 
to  laugh  at  you.  Oh,  it's  all  very  well  for  you — ^you  can  go 
to  sleep.  You've  no  thought  of  your  poor,  patient  wife  and 
your  dear  children.  You  think  of  nothing  but  lending  um- 
brellas ! 

"  Men,  indeed !  Call  themselves  lords  of  the  creation  ! 
Pretty  lords,  when  they  can't  even  take  care  of  an  umbrella ! 
I  know  that  walk  to-morrow  will  be  the  death  of  me.  But 
that's  what  you  want ;  then  you  may  go  to  your  club,  and  do 
as  you  like ;  and  then  nicely  my  poor  dear  children  will  be 
used :  but  then,  sir,  you'll  be  happy.  Oh,  don't  tell  me !  I 
know  you  will;  else  you'd  never  have  lent  the  umbrella.  *  *  * 
I  should  like  to  know  how  I'm  to  go  to  mother's  without  the 
umbrella  ?  Don't  tell  me  that  I  said  I  loould  go  j  that's  nothing 
to  do  with  it — nothing  at  all.  She'll  think  I'm  neglecting 
her ;  and  the  little  money  we  were  to  have,  we  shan't  have  at 
all,  because  we've  no  umbrella.  The  children  too,  dear  things ! 
They'll  be  sopping  wet ;  for  they  shan't  stop  at  home ;  they 
shan't  lose"  their  learning;  it's  all  their  father  will  leave  'em, 
I'm  sure.  But  they  shall  go  to  school.  Don't  tell  me  I  said 
they  shouldn't ;  you  are  so  aggravating,  Caudle ;  you'd  spoil 
the  temper  of  an  angel.  They  shall  go  to  school ;  mark  that. 
And  if  they  get  their  death  of  cold,  it's  not  my  fault.  I  did 
not  lend  the  umbrella  !" 

"  Uere,"    says    Caudle,  "I    fell    asleep;    and    dreamt    that 


WEDDED  LIFE.  G9 

the  sky  was  turned  into  gTcen  calico,  with  whalebone  ribs; 
that,  in  fact,  the  whole  world  revolved  under  a  tremendous  um- 
brella." 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


TTIM  that  has  a  good  wife,  no  evil  in  life  that  may  not  be 

borne  can  befall ; 
Him  that  has  a  bad  wife,  no  good  thing  in  life  can  chance  to 

that  good  you  can  call. 

Spanish  Saying. 


n^HERE'S  but  a  gude  wife  in  the  country,  and  ilka  man 
thinks  he's  got  her. 

Scotch. 


A  H !  gentle  dames,  it  gars  me  greet, 

To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 
How  mony  lengthened,  sage  advices. 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 


Robert  Burns. 


A  TABLE   or   ERKATA. 

Hostess  Loquitur. 

^TTELL !  thanks  be  to  Heaven, 

The  summons  is  given ; 
It's  only  gone  seven 

And  should  have  been  six ; 
There's  fine  overdoing 
In  roasting  and  stewing. 
And  victuals  past  chewing,. 

To  rags  and  to  sticks ! 


MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

How  dreadfully  eliilly ! 
I  shake,  willy-nilly; 
That  John  is  so  silly, 

And  never  will  learn ; 
This  plate  is  a  cold  one; 
That  cloth  is  an  old  one ; 
I  wish  they  had  told  one 

The  lamp  wouldn't  burn. 

Now,  then,  for  some  blunder, 
For  nerves  to  sink  under; 
I  never  shall  wonder 

Whatever  goes  ill. 
That  fish  is  a  riddle; 
It's  broke  in  the  middle; 
A  Turbot?  a  fiddle! 

It's  only  a  Brill! 

It's  quite  overboiled  too; 
The  butter  is  oiled  too; 
The  soup  is  all  spoiled  too — 

It's  nothing  but  slop. 
The  smelts  looking  flabby. 
The  soles  are  so  dabby; 
It  is  so  shabby, 

That  cook  shall  not  stop ! 

As  sure  as  the  morning- 
She  gets  a  month's  warning. 
My  orders  for  scorning — 

There's  nothing  to  eat! 
I  hear  such  a  rushing; 
I  feel  such  a  flushing; 
I  know  I  am  blushing 

As  red  as  a  beet  I 


WEDDED  LIFE.  71 

Friends  flatter  and  flatter; 
I  wish  they  would  chatter; 
What  can  be  the  matter 

That  nothing  comes  next? 
How  very  unpleasant ! 
Lord !  there  is  the  pheasant ! 
Not  wanted  at  present — 

I'm  born  to  be  vext ! 

The  pudding  brought  on,  too. 
And  aiming  at  ton,  too, 
And  where  is  that  John,  too. 

The  plague  that  he  is ! 
He's  off  on  some  ramble, 
And  there  is  3Iiss  Campbell 
Enjoying  the  scramble — 

Detestable  quiz ! 

The  veal  they  all  eye  it, 
But  no  one  will  try  it; 
An  ogre  would  shy  it. 

So  ruddy  as  that ! 
And  as  for  the  mutton. 
The  cold  dish  it's  put  on 
Converts  to  a  button 

Each  drop  of  the  fat. 

The  beef  without  mustard ! 
My  fate's  to  be  flustered; 
And  there  comes  the  custard 

To  eat  with  the  hare ! 
Such  flesh,  fowl,  and  fishing, 
Such  waiting  and  dishing  1 
I  cannot  help  wishing 

A  woman  mig-ht  swear ! 


72  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

O.  dear !  did  I  ever  ? 
liiit  no,  I  did  never — 
Well,  come,  that  is  clever, 

To  send  up  the  brawn ! 
That  cook,  I  could  scold  her, 
Gets  worse  as  she's  older; 
I  wonder  who  told  her 

That  woodcocks  are  drawn ! 

It's  really  audacious ! 
I  cannot  look  gracious. 
Lord  help  the  voracious 

That  came  for  a  cram ! 
There's  Alderman  Fuller 
Grets  duller  and  duller. 
Those  fowls,  by  the  color, 

Were  boiled  with  the  ham! 

Well,  where  is  the  curry? 

I'm  all  in  a  flurry. 

No,  cook's  in  no  hurry — 

A  stoppage  again ! 
And  John  makes  it  wider — 
A  pretty  provider ! 
By  bringing  up  cider 

Instead  of  champagne ! 

My  troubles  come  faster! 
There's  my  lord  and  master 
Detects  each  disaster. 

And  hardly  can  sit. 
He  cannot  help  seeing 
All  thincrs  disairreeinsr; 
If  he  begins  d ing 

I'll)   ofl'  ill   a   fit! 


WEDDED  LIFE.  73 

This  cooking  !  it's  messing  ! 
The  spinach  wants  pressing, 
And  salads  in  dressing 

Are  best  with  good  eggs. 
And  John — yes,  already — 
Has  had  something  heady, 
That  makes  him  unsteady 

In  keeping  his  legs. 

How  shall  I  get  through  \i'( 
I  never  can  do  it; 
I'm  quite  looking  to  it, 

To  sink  by  and  by. 
0 !  would  I  were  dead  now. 
Or  up  in  my  bed  now, 
To  cover  my  head  now. 

And  have  a  good  cry ! ! ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


nPHE  happiness  of  life  is  made  up  of  minute  fractions,  the 
little  soon  forgotten  charities  of  a  kiss  or  a  smile,  a  kind 
look,  a  heartfelt  compliment,  and  the  countless  infinitesimals 
of  pleasurable  thought  and  genial  feeling. 

Coleridge. 


THE  UNKEASONABLE   HUSBAND. 

A    WIFE,  domestic,  good,  and  pure, 

Like  snail  should  keep  within  her  door ; 

But  not  like  snail,  in  silver  track. 
Place  all  her  wardrobe  on  hr  hwJc ! 
7  1) 


74  JIGSAWS  OF  LIFE. 

A  wife  should  be  like  echo,  true, 
Not  speak  but  when  she's  spoken  to; 

Yet  not  like  echo,  still  be  heard 
Contending  for  the  final  word ! 

Like  a  totvn  clock  a  wife  should  be, 
Keep  time  and  rccjxdarity ; 

But  not  like  clock  harangue  so  clear, 
That  all  the  town  her  voice  may  hear ! 


THE   WOMAN-LYE    MASTEK-PIECE. 

Palmer — 

A  ND  this  I  would  ye  should  understand, 
I  have  seen  women,  five  hundred  thousand; 
Yet  in  all  places  where  I  have  been, 
Of  all  the  women  that  I  have  seen, 
I  never  saw  nor  knew  in  my  conscience 
Any  one  xooman  out  of  'patience  1 1 1 

POTICART 

By  the  mass,  there's  a  great  lye ! 
Pardoner — 

I  never  heard  a  greater,  by  our  Ladie ! 
Pedler — 

A  greater!   nay,  know  you  any  one  so  great? 

Metry  John   Heywood. 


WEBBED  LIFE.  75 


THE    GOOD    WirE. 

QHE  never  crossetli  licr  Imsband  in  the  spring-tide  of  liis 
anger,  but  stays  till  it  be  ebbing  water.  Surely  men,  con- 
trary to  iron,  are  worse  to  be  wrought  upon  when  they  are  hot. 
Her  clothes  are  rather  comely  than  costly,  and  she  makes  plain 
cloth  to  be  velvet  by  her  handsome  wearing  it.  Her  husband's 
secrets  she  will  not  divulge ;  especially  she  is  careful  to  conceal 
his  infirmities.  In  her  husband's  absence,  she  is  wife  and 
deputy-husband,  which  makes  her  double  the  files  of  her  dili- 
gence. At  his  return,  he  finds  all  things  so  well,  that  he 
wonders  to  see  himself  at  home  when  he  was  abroad.  Her 
children,  though  many  in  number,  are  none  in  noise,  steering 
them  with  a  look  whither  she  listeth. 

Thomas   Fuller. 


T  ET  no  man  value  at  a  little  price 
A  virtuous  woman's  counsel. 

George  Chapman. 


A    WOMAN  in  a  single  state  may  be  happy,  and  may  be 
miserable;    but  most  happy,   most   miserable — these    are 
epithets,  which,  with  rare  exceptions,  belong  exclusively  to  a 
wife, 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


76  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


MUTUAL   rOKGIVENESS. 

T  SUPPOSE  the  brides  are  few  who  have  not  wept  once  over 
-^  the  hasty  words  of  a  husband,  not  six  mouths  married;  and 
I  suppose  there  are  few  husbands  wlio,  in  the  early  part  of 
their  married  life,  have  not  felt  that  perhaps  their  choice  was 
not  a  wise  one.  Breaches  of  harmony  will  occur  between  im- 
perfect men  and  women ;  but  all  evil  results  may  be  avoided 
by  a  resolution,  well  kept  on  both  sides,  to  ask  forgiveness  for 
the  hasty  word,  the  peevish  complaint,  the  unshared  pleasure ; 
and  if  there  is  a  frank  and  wortluj  nature,  a  quarrel  is  im- 
possible. 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland. 


'T^HE   very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  har- 
monious  combination.     He  was  of  a  romantic  and  some- 
what serious  cast :  she  was  all  life  and  gladness. 

Washington  Irving. 


THE   KETUKN. 

A  ND  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 
And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought; 
In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 

Sac  sweet  his  voice,  sac  smooth  his  tongue; 

His  breath's  like  caller  air; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't, 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  11 

For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  hick  at  a', 
There's  Httle  pleasure  iu  the  house 

When  our  gude  man's  awa. 

William  J.  Mickle 


TO   MY   WirE, 

On  the  Anniversary  of  her  Wedding-day,  which  was  also  her  Birth-day. 

"rpilEE,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed;" 
So,  fourteen  years  ago,  I  said. 

Behold  another  ring  !     For  what  ? 

To  wed  thee  o'er  again.     Why  not? 

With  that  first  ring  I  married  youth, 

Grrace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth. 

Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  revered, 

And  all  my  Mary  then  appeared. 

If  she,  by  merit  since  disclosed. 

Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed, 
-I  plead  that  double  merit  now 

To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Here,  then,  to-day  (with  faith  as  sure. 

With  ardor  as  intense,  as  pure, 

As  when  amidst  the  rites  divine, 

I  took  thy  troth  and  plighted  mine), 

To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring, 

A  token  and  a  pledge  I  bring; 

With  this  I  wed,  till  death  us  part, 

The  riper  virtues-  of  thy  heart; 

Those  virtues  which,  before  untried, 

The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride; 

Those  virtues,  whose  progressive  claim. 

Endearing  wedlock's  very  name, 
7« 


MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves, 
For  conscience'  sake,  as  well  as  love's. 
And  why?     They  show  me  every  hour 
Honor's  high  thought,  aflfection's  power. 
Discretion's  deed,  sound  judgment's  sentence, 
And  teach  me  all  things  but  repentance. 

Samuel   Bishop. 


nnHE  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 

As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Locked  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessing  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth. 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter ! 


O  TROXGr  indeed  is  the  man  who  has  a  good  wife ;  a  sensible, 

affectionate,  refined,  practical  woman,  who  makes  a  man's 

nature  all  the  stronger,  by  making  it  more  tender. 


S.  Osgood. 


ILLUSIONS. 

TX7E  are  not  very  much  to  blame  for  our  bad  marriages. 
We  live  amid  hallucinations,  and  this  especial  trap  is 
laid  to  trip  up  our  feet  with,  and  all  are  tripped  up  first  or 
last.  But  the  uiighty  IMother,  who  had  been  so  sly  with  us,  as 
if  she  felt  she  owed  us  some  indemnity,  insinuates  into  the 
Pandora  box  of  marriage  some  deep  and  serious  benefits,  and 
some  great  joys.     We  find  a  delight  in  the  beauty  and  happi- 


WEBBED  LIFE.  79 

ness  of  children,  that  makes  the  heart  too  big  for  the  body. 
In  the  worst  assorted  connections  there  is  ever  some  mixture 
of  true  marriage.  Teague  and  his  jade  get  some  just  relations 
of  mutual  respect,  kindly  observation,  and  fostering  of  each 
other,  learn  something,  and  would  carry  themselves  wiselier, 
if  they  were  now  to  begin. 

R.   W.   Emerson. 


BKEAKrAST  TALK. 

No.  1. 

TT'S  rather  extraordinary,  IMrs.  Smith,  that  you  can't  make 
me  a  proper  cup  of  tea.  Here's  the  eggs  boiled  to  a  stone 
again  !  Do  you  think  I'm  a  canary  bird,  to  be  fed  upon  hard 
eggs  ?  I  think  I've  put  up  with  your  neglect  long  enough ; 
therefore,  Mrs.  Smith,  if  my  tea  is  not  made  a  little  more  to 
my  liking  to-morrow,  and  if  you  insult  me  with  a  herring  like 
that,  and  boil  my  eggs  that  you  might  fire  'em  out  of  guns ; 
why,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Smith,  you  may  see  a  man  in  a  passion. 
It  takes  a  good  deal  to  rouse  me,  but  when  I'm  up — I  say, 
when  I'm  up — that's  all.  Where  did  I  put  my  gloves  ?  You 
dovbt  know  ?     Of  course,  not ;  you  know  nothing. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


BKEAXrAST   TALK. 

No.  2. 

T)  Y  the  bye,  Sarah,  just  put  half  a  dozen  shirts,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  in  my  portmanteau,  I'm  going — There  you 
are  with  your  black  looks  again !  I  can  never  go  anywhere, 
just  a  little  to  enjoy  myself,  but  you  look  like  thunder.  What ! 
I  might  sometimes  take  you  out?     Nonsense;  women — that  is, 


80  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

women  when  they're  married — arc  best  at  home.  Half  a  dozen 
shirts,  I  say,  and  my  sliaviug-tackle.  Do  you  hear  me,  Mrs. 
Smith  ?  l*erhaps  when  you've  done  counting  the  legs  of  that 
fly  on  the  ceiling,  you'll  attend  to  me.  Eh  ?  /  think  you 
never  xoant  to  go  out?  Quite  the  contrary;  it's  my  belief 
you'd  always  be  out.  I've  no  opinion  of  any  woman  who 
wants  to  go  out  at  all.  Women  were  never  intended  to  go  out. 
They  manage  these  matters  much  better  in  the  East.  I  should 
have  told  you  where  I  was  going,  but,  as  you've  shown  your 
temper,  I  won't  tell  you  a  syllable.  No  ;  nor  I  shan't  tell  you 
who  I'm  going  with,  or  when  I  shall  be  back.  When  you  see 
me,  then  you  may  expect  me,  and  not  before.  And  mind  that 
all  the  buttons  are  on  my  shirts — that's  all.  It's  miserable 
always  being  left  by  yourself?  Yourself,  indeed !  Ain't  there 
books  in  the  house  ?  I'm  sure  you'd  be  none  the  worse  for 
'em.  Besides,  there's  the  Cookery  book ;  read  that.  A  wife 
can't  study  anything  better.  All  I  say  to  you  is,  stay  at  home ; 
you've  a  needle  and  thread,  haven't  you  ?  and  I'll  be  sworn 
for  it,  plenty  of  things  to  make  and  mend.  And  if  you 
haven't,  cut  holes,  and  sew  'em  up  again.  Now,  see  when  I 
come  home  that  my  portmanteau's   ready.     What's  o'clock? 

You  want  five  minutes  to ?     No  doubt;  the  old  story; 

you're  always  wanting  something. 

Douglas  Jerrold. 


"  TTEAVEN  will  be  no  heaven  to  mc,  if  I  do  not  meet  my 
wife  there." 

Andrew  Jackson. 


"  T  CAN  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm, 
"  than  to  have  a  wife  and  children.     If  you  are  prosper- 
ous, there  they  arc  to  share  your  prosperity;   if  otherwise, 
there  they  are  to  comfort  you." 

Washington   Irving. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  81 

rpiS  sweet  to  licar  tlie  watch-dog's  honest  bark, 

Bay  deep-mouthed  welcome  as  we  draw  near  home; 
'Tis  sweet  to  know  there  is  an  eye  will  mark 
Our  coming,  and  look  brighter  when  we  come. 

Lord   Byron, 


Women  act  their  parts, 
When  they  do  make  their  ordered  houses  know  them. 

J.   S.    Knowles. 


THE  TRUEST   rKIENDSKIP. 

TN  wedlock  when  the  sexes  meet, 
Friendship  is  only  then  complete. 
"  Blest  state !  where  souls  each  other  draw, 
Where  love  is  liberty  and  law!" 
The  choicest  blessing  found  below, 
That  man  can  wish,  or  Heaven  bestow ! 

Nathaniel  Cotton. 


A  TRUE  WIPE. 

r\    WHAT  a  treasure  is  a  virtuous  wife, 

^^   Discreet  and  loving!  Not  one  gift  on  earth 

Makes  a  man's  life  so  nighly  bound  to  heaven. 

She  gives  him  double  forces  to  endure 

And  to  enjoy,  by  being  one  with  him, 

Feeling  his  joys  and  griefs  with  equal  sense; 

And,  like  the  twins  Hippocrates  reports, 

If  he  fetch  sighs,  she  draws  her  breath  as  short; 

If  he  lament,  she  melts  herself  in  tears; 

If  he  be  glad,  she  triumphs;  if  he  stir, 


82  MOSAICS  OF  LTFE. 

She  moves  his  way;         *         *         * 
All  store  witliout  her  leaves  a  man  but  poor; 
And  with  her  poverty  is  exceeding  store; 
No  time  is  tedious  with  her ;  her  true  worth 
flakes  a  true  husband  think  his  arms  enfold 
(With  her  alone)  a  complete  world  of  gold. 

George  Chapman. 


ANGELS   UNAWAKES." 

T  ITTLE  can  we  tell  who  share, 

Our  household  hearth  of  love  and  care  ! 

Therefore  with  grave  tenderness 
Should  we  strive  to  cheer  and  bless, 

All  who  live  this  little  life — 
Husband,  children,  sire,  or  wife, 

Lest  we  wrong  some  sei-aph  here, 
Who  has  left  some  starry  spherc. 

Exiled  from  the  heavens  above. 
To  fulfill  a  mortal  love. 


T.  Powell. 


WOMAN. 

QHE  presideth  in  the  house,  and  there  is  peace.  She  com- 
mandcth  with  judgment,  and  is  obeyed.  She  ariseth  in 
the  morning;  she  considers  her  affairs;  and  appointcth  to 
every  one  their  proper  business.  The  care  of  her  family  is 
her  whole  delight;  to  that  alone  she  applieth  her  study;  and 
elegance  with  frugality  is  seen  in  her  mansions.     She  informeth 


WEDDED  LIFE.  83 

the  minds  of  her  children  witli  wisdom;  she  I'ashioneth  their 
manners  from  the  example  of  lier  own  goodness.  The  word 
of  her  mouth  is  the  law  of  their  youth;  the  motion  of  her 
eye  commandeth  their  obedience.  In  prosperity  she  is  not 
puffed  up;  in  adversity  she  healeth  the  wounds  of  Fortune 
with  patience.  The  troubles  of  her  husband  are  alleviated  by 
her  counsels,  and  sweetened  by  her  endearments ;  he  putteth 
his  heart  in  her  bosom,  and  receiveth  comfort.  Happy  is  the 
man  that  hath  made  her  his  wife;  happy  the  child  that  calleth 
her  mother. 

Robert  Dodsley. 


TT  is  a  delightful  thought,  that  during  the  familiarity  of  con- 
stant proximity,  the  heart  gathers  up  in  silence  the  nutri- 
ment of  love,  as  the  diamond,  even  beneath  water,  imbibes  the 
light  it  emits.  Time,  which  deadens  hatred,  secretly  strengthens 
love. 


THE   STORY   gr   KARIN. 

IT' AKIN  the  fair,  Karin  the  gay. 

She  came  on  the  morn  of  her  bridal  day ; 

She  came  to  the  mill-pond  clear  and  bright, 
And  viewed  hersel'  in  the  morning  light. 

"  And,  oh,"  she  cried,  that  my  bonny  brow 
May  ever  be  white  and  smooth  as  now ! 

"  And,  oh,  my  hair,  that  I  love  to  braid, 
Be  yellow  in  sunshine,  and  brown  in  shade ! 

"  And,  oh,  my  waist,  sae  slender  and  fine. 
May  it  never  need  girdle  longer  than  mine !" 


84  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

8hc  lingered  and  laughed  o'er  tlic  waters  clear, 
Wheu  sudden  she  starts  and  shrieks  with  tear : 

"  Oh,  what  is  this  face,  sae  laidly  old. 
That  looks  at  my  side  in  the  waters  cold?" 

She  turns  around  to  view  the  bank. 
And  the  osier  willows  dark  and  dank ; 

And  from  the  fern  she  sees  arise 
An  aged  crone  wi'  a.wsome  eyes. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !"  she  laughed,  "  ye're  a  bonny  bride  ! 
See  how  ye'U  fare  gin  the  New  Year  tide ! 

"  Ye'll  wear  a  robe  sae  blithely  gran', 
An  ell-long  girdle  canna  span. 

"  When  twal-months  three  shall  pass  away, 
Your  berry-brown  hair  shall  be  streaked  with  gray, 

"  And  gin  ye  be  mither  of  bairnies  nine. 
Your  brow  shall  be  winkled  and  dark  as  mine." 

Karin  she  sprang  to  her  feet  wi'  speed. 
And  clapped  her  hands  abune  her  head : 

'■'  I  pray  to  the  saints  and  spirits  all, 
1'hat  never  a  child  may  me  mither  call !" 

The  crone  drew  near,  and  the  crone  she  spake : 
"  Nine  times  flesh  and  banes  shall  ache. 

"  Laidly  and  awsome  ye  shall  wane 
Wi'  toil,  and  care  and  travail-pain." 

"Better,"  said  Karin,  "lay  me  low, 
And  sink  for  aye  in  the  waters'  flow !" 


WEBBED  LIFE.  85 

The  croue  niisod  licr  withered  hand  on  high, 
And  showed  her  a  tree  that  stood  hard  by. 

"  And  take  of  the  bonny  fruit,"  she  said, 
"  And  eat  till  the  seeds  are  dark  and  red. 

"  Count  them  less,  or  count  them  more, 
Nine  times  you  shall  number  o'er; 

'•  And  when  each  number  you  shall  speak, 
Cast  seed  by  seed  into  the  lake." 

Karin  she  ate  of  the  fruit  sae  fine; 
'Twas  mellow  as  sand,  and  sweet  as  brine. 

Seed  by  seed  she  let  them  fall ; 
The  waters  rippled  over  all. 

But  ilka  seed  as  Karin  threw, 
Up  rose  a  bubble  to  her  view, 

Up  rose  a  sigh  from  out  the  lake, 
As  though  a  baby's  heart  did  break. 

*  *  *  * 

Twice  nine  years  are  come  and  gone ; 
Karin  the  fair,  she  walks  her  lone. 

She  sees  around  on  ilka  side 
Maiden  and  mither,  wife  and  bride; 

Wan  and  pale  her  bonny  brow, 
Sunken  and  sad  her  eyelids  now. 

Slow  her  step,  and  heavy  her  breast, 
And  never  an  arm  whereon  to  rest. 

The  old  kirk-porch  when  Karin  spied, 
The  postern  door  was  open  wide. 

8 


86  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"Wae's  me!"  slie  said,  "I'll  enter  in, 
And  .slirive  me  from  my  every  sin." 

"Twas  silence  all  within  the  kirk ; 
The  aisle  was  empty,  chill  and  mirk. 

The  chancel  rails  were  black  and  bare ; 
Nae  priest,  nae  penitent  was  there. 

Karin  knelt,  and  her  prayer  she  said; 

But  her  heart  within  her  was  heavy  and  dead. 

Her  prayer  fell  back  on  the  cold  gray  stone; 
It  would  not  rise  to  heaven  alone. 

Darker  grew  the  darksome  aisle, 
Colder  felt  her  heart  the  while. 

"  Wae's  me !"  she  cried,  "  what  is  my  sin  ?" 
Never  I  wronged  kith  nor  kin. 

"  But  why  do  I  start  and  quake  with  fear. 
Lest  I  a  dreadful  doom  should  hear  ? 

"And  what  is  this  light  that  seems  to  fall 
On  the  sixth  command  upon  the  wall  ? 

"And  who  are  these  I  see  arise 
And  look  on  me  wi'  stony  eyes  ? 

"A  shadowy  troop  they  flock  sae  fast, 
The  kirk-yard  may  not  hold  the  last. 

"Young  and  old  of  ilk  degree, 
Bairns,  and  bairnies'  bairns,  I  see. 

"  All  I  look  on  either  way, 
'  Mother,  mother !'  seem  to  say. 


WEDDED  LIFE.  87 

"'We  are  souls  that  miglit  have  been, 
But  for  your  fcaiitj/  and  sin. 

"  '  We,  in  numbers  multiplied, 

Might  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  died ; 

" '  Might  have  served  the  Lord  in  this ; 
Might  have  met  thy  soul  in  bliss. 

"  •'  Mourn  for  us,  then,  while  you  pray. 
Who  might  have  been,  but  never  may !'  " 

Then  the  voices  died  away — 
"  Might  have  been,  but  never  may !" 

Karin  she  left  the  kirk  no  more ; 
Never  she  passed  the  postern-door. 

They  found  her  dead  at  the  vesper  toll ; 
May  Heaven  in  mercy  rest  her  soul ! 

J.  G.  Whittier. 


BABYHOOD 


8* 


BABYHOOD. 


Of  all  the  joys  that  brighten  sufifering  earth, 
What  joy  is  welcomed  like  a  new-born  child  ? 

Mrs.  Norton. 

A  babe  is  a  Mother's  anchor. 

H.  W.  Beecher. 

A  babe  in  a  house  is  a  well-spring  of  pleasure. 

Proverbial  Philosophy. 


WOMAN'S   RIGHTS. 

T?  VERY  woman  has  a  right  to  think  her  child  the  "  prettiest 
little  haby  in  the  world,"  and  it  would  be  the  greatest 
folly  to  deny  her  this  right,  for  she  would  be  sure  to  take  it. 

Punch. 


fT^HE  clue  of  our  destiny,  wander  where  we  will,  lies  at  the 
cradle-foot. 

My  Early  Days. 


Where  children  are,  there  is  the  Golden  age. 

Nevalis. 


I  LOVE  God,  and  every  little  child. 

Jean   Paul 
91 


92  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

TTOW  infinite  tlie  "wealtli  of  love  and  hope, 
G  arnered  in  these  same  tiny  treasure-houses ! 


H 


E  that  hath  a  wife  and  children  hath  giveij  hostages  to 
Fortune. 


T^HEEE  is  even  a  happiness 


That  makes  the  heart  afraid. 


T.  Hood. 


T 


SEASONS    or   PHAYEK. 

n^HERE  are  smiles  and  tears  in  the  mother's  eyes, 

For  her  new-born  infant  before  her  lies. 
Oh,  hour  of  bliss !   when  the  heart  o'erflows 
With  rapture  a  mother  only  knows; 
Let  it  gush  forth  in  words  of  fervent  prayer; 
Let  it  swell  up  to  heaven  for  her  precious  care. 

Henry  Ware. 


HE  heart  that  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth  is  the  only 
one  that  cannot  forget  that  it  has  loved  us. 


THE   BABY. 

A  NOTITER  little  wave  upon  the  sea  of  life ; 
Another  soul  to  save  amid  its  toil  and  strife. 


BABYHOOD.  93 

Two  more  little  feet  to  walk  tlie  dusty  road; 

To  choose  where  two  paths  meet,  the  narrow  and  the  hroad. 

Two  more  little  hands  to  work  for  good  or  ill ; 
Two  more  little  eyes,  another  little  will. 

Another  heart  to  love,  receiving  love  again; 
And  so  the  haby  came,  a  thing  of  joy  and  pain. 


MY   BIRD. 

TT^RE  last  year's  moon  had  left  the  sky, 

A  birdling  sought  my  Indian  nest, 
And  folded,  0,  so  lovingly  ! 

Her  tiny  wings  upon  my  breast. 

From  morn  till  evening's  purple  tinge. 
In  winsome  helplessness  she  lies; 

Two  rose  leaves  with  a  silken  fringe, 
Shut  softly  on  her  starry  eyes. 

There's  not  in  Ind  a  lovelier  bird. 
Broad  earth  owns  not  a  happier  nest; 

0  Grod,  thou  hast  a  fountain  stirred. 
Whose  waters  never  more  may  rest. 

This  beautiful,  mysterious  thing, 

This  seeming  visitant  from  Heaven, 

This  bird  with  the  immortal  wing. 
To  me,  to  me  thy  hand  hath  given. 

The  pulse  first  caught  its  tiny  stroke. 
The  blood  its  crimson  hue,  from  mine; 

This  life  which  I  have  dared  invoke. 
Henceforth  is  parallel  with  thine. 


94  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

A  silent  awe  is  in  my  room, 

I  tremble  with  delicious  fear; 
The  future,  with  its  light  and  gloom, 

Time  and  Eternity  are  here. 

Doubts,  hopes,  in  eager  tumult  rise; 

Hear,  0,  my  God !  one  earnest  prayer : 
Room  for  my  bird  in  Paradise, 

And  give  her  angel  plumage  there ! 

Emily  Judson, 


TTE  is  sleeping — brown  and  silken 
Lie  the  lashes  long  and  meek, 

Like  caressing  clinging  shadows 
On  his  plump  and  peachy  cheek ; 

And  I  bend  above  him  weeping- 
Thankful  tears — oh,  undefiled  ! 

For  a  woman's  crown  of  glory, 
For  the  blessiu"-  of  a  child ! 


A   GRAPHIC   DESCRIPTION    OP   A   BABY. 

TTURRAH  !  Light  upon  the  world  again  !  It's  a  glorious 
world !  magnificent !  quite  too  beautiful  to  leave ;  and, 
besides,  I  would  rather  stay,  if  only  to  thank  God  a  little 
longer  for  this  glorious  light,  this  pure  air  that  can  echo  back 
my  loudest  hurrah.  And  then,  my  boy — but  haven't  I  told 
you  ?  Why,  sir,  I've  got  a  boy.  A  BOY !  ha,  ha !  I  shout 
it  out  to  you — A  BOY  :  fourteen  pounds,  and  the  mother  a 
great  deal  better  than  could  be  expected !  And,  I  say,  sir,  it's 
mine!     Hurrah,  and  hallelujah  forever!     O,  sir,  such  legs, 


BABYHOOD.  95 

such  arms,  and  such  a  head!  and  0,  good  heavens !  lui  has  Jiis 
mother's  lips!  I  can  kiss  them  forever !  and  then,  sir,  look 
at  his  feet,  his  hands,  his  chin,  his  eyes,  his  everything 
in  fact,  so,  "  so  perfecthj  0.  K !"  Give  me  joy,  sir ;  no 
you  needn't,  either !  I  am  full  now ;  I  run  over ;  and  they 
say  that  I  ran  over  a  number  of  old  women,  half  killed  the 
mother,  pulled  the  doctor  by  the  nose,  and  upset  a  'pothecary 
shop  in  the  corner ;  and  then,  didn't  I  ring  the  tea-bell  ? 
Didn't  I  blow  the  horn  ?  Didn't  I  dance,  shout,  laugh,  and 
cry,  altogether  ?  The  women  they  had  to  tie  me  up.  I  don't 
believe  that;  but  who  is  going  to  shut  his  mouth  when  he  has 
a  live  baby  ?  You  should  have  heard  his  lungs,  sir,  at  the 
first  mouthful  of  fresh  air ;  such  a  burst !  A  little  tone  in  his 
voice,  but  not  pain ;  excess  of  joy,  sir,  from  too  great  sensation. 
The  air-bath  was  so  sudden,  you  know. 

Think  of  all  this  beautiful  machinery  starting  off  at  once  in 
full  motion ;  all  his  thousand  outside  feelers  answering  to  the 
touch  of  cool  air ;  the  flutter  and  crash  at  the  ear,  and  that 
curious  contrivance,  the  eye,  looking  out  wonderingly  and 
bewildered  on  the  great  world,  so  glorious  to  his  unworn  per- 
ceptions. His  network  of  nerves,  his  wheels  and  pulleys,  his 
air  pumps  and  valves,  his  engines  and  reservoirs )  and  within 
all,  that  beautiful  fountain,  with  its  jets  and  running  streams, 
dashing  and  coursing  through  the  whole  length  and  breadth, 
without  stint  or  pause;  making  altogether,  sir,  exactly  four- 
teen. Did  I  ever  talk  brown  to  you,  sir,  or  blue,  or  any  other 
of  the  Devil's  colors  ?  You  say  I  have.  Beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  but  you  are  mistaken  in  the  individual.  I  am  this  day, 
sir,  multiplied  by  two;  I  am  duplicate;  I  am  number  one  of 
an  indefinite  series,  and  there's  my  continuation.  And  you 
observe,  sir,  it  is  not  a  block,  nor  a  blockhead,  nor  a  painting, 
nor  a  bust,  nor  a  fragment  of  anything,  however  beautiful ; 
but  a  combination  of  all  the  arts  and  sciences  in  one ;  painting, 
sculpture,  music,  (hear  him  cry !)  mineralogy,  chemistry,  me- 


96  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

clianics,  (see  him  kick !)  geography,  and  the  use  of"  the  globes, 
(see  liim  nurse !)  and  with  all,  he  is  a  perpetual  motion,  a  time- 
piece that  will  never  run  down. 

And  who  wound  it  up  ?  But  words  are  but  a  mouthing  and 
a  mockery.    *    *    *    * 

When  a  man  is  nearly  crushed  under  obligations,  it  is  pre- 
sumed he  is  unable  to  speak ;  but  he  may  bend  over  very  care- 
fully, for  fear  of  falling,  nod  in  a  small  way,  and  say  nothing; 
and  then  if  he  have  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  lay  a  hand 
upon  his  heart,  and  look  down  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees, 
with  a  motion  of  the  lips,  muttered  poetry,  showing  the  wish 
and  the  inability,  it  will  be  (well  done)  very  gracefully  ex- 
pressive. With  my  boy  in  his  first  integuments,  I  assume 
that  position,  make  the  small  nod  aforesaid,  and  leave  you  the 
poetry  uumuttered. 


THE   INVALID   WirE. 

"  T?  VERY  wife  needs  a  good  stock  of  love  to  begin  with." 
Don't  she  ?  You  arc  upon  a  sick  bed ;  a  little  feeble 
thing  lies  on  your  arm,  that  you  might  crush  with  your  hand. 
You  take  those  little  velvet  fingers  in  yours,  close  your  eyes, 
and  turn  your  head  languidly  to  the  pillow.  Little  brothers 
and  sisters,  Henry  and  Willie,  and  Agnes  and  Bessie,  and 
Mary  and  Kitty — half  a  score — come  tip-toeing  into  the  room 
to  "  see  the  new  baby."  It  is  quite  an  old  story  to  "  nurse," 
who  sits  like  an  automaton,  while  they  give  vent  to  their 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  its  wee  toes  and  fingers,  and  make 
profound  inquiries,  which  nobody  thinks  best  to  hear.  You 
look  on  with  a  languid  smile,  and  they  pass  out,  asking,  "  why 
they  can't  stay  with  dear  mamma,  and  why  they  mustn't  play 
'  puss  in  the  corner'  as  usual  ?"  You  wonder  if  your  little 
croupy  boy  tied  his  tippet  on   when   he  wont  to  school,  and 


BADYHOOD.  97 

whether  Betty  will  sec  that  your  husband's  flannel  is  aired, 
and  if  Peggy  has  cleaned  tlie  silver,  and  washed  off  the  front 
door  steps,  and  what  your  blessed  husband  is  about,  that  lie 
don't  come  home  to  dinner.  There  sits  old  nurse,  kee^Ding  up 
that  dreadful  treadmill  trotting  "  to  quiet  the  baby,"  till  you 
could  fly  through  the  key-hole  in  desperation.  The  odor  of 
dinner  begins  to  creep  up-stairs.  You  wonder  if  your  hus- 
band's pudding  will  be  made  right,  and  if  Betty  will  remember 
to  put  wine  in  the  sauce,  as  he  likes  it :  and  then  the  per- 
spiration starts  out  on  your  forehead  as  you  hear  a  thumping 
on  the  stairs,  and  a  child's  suppressed  scream;  and  nurse 
snatches  the  baby  up  in  flannel  to  the  tip  of  its  nose,  dumps 
it  down  in  the  easy-chair,  and  tells  you  to  leave  th.e  family  to 
her  and  go  to  sleep.  By  and  by  she  comes  in — after  staying 
down  long  enough  to  get  a  refreshing  cup  of  coffee — and  walks 
up  to  the  bed  with,  a  bowl  of  gruel,  tasting  it.  and  then  putting 
the  spoon  back  into  the  bowl.  In  the  first  place,  you  hate 
gruel ;  in  the  next,  you  couldn't  eat  it  if  she  held  a  pistol  to 
your  head,  after  that  spoon  had  been  in  her  mouth;  so  you 
meekly  suggest  that  it  be  set  on  the  table  to  cool — hoping  by 
some  providential  interposition  it  may  get  tipped  over.  Well, 
she  moves  round  your  room  with  a  pair  of  creaking  shoes,  and 
a  bran-new  gingham  gown  that  rattles  like  a  i:)aper  window- 
curtain  at  every  step ;  and  smooths  her  hair  with  your  nice 
little  head-brush,  and  opens  a  drawer  by  mistake  (?),  "  think- 
ing it  was  the  baby's  drawer."  Then  you  hear  little  nails 
scratching  on  the  door ;  and  Charlie  whispers  through  the 
key-hole,  "  Mamma,  Charlie's  tired,  please  let  Charlie  come  in." 
Nurse  scowls  and  says  no ;  but  you  intercede — poor  Charlie, 
he's  only  a  baby  himself.  Well,  he  leans  his  head  against  the 
pillow,  and  looks  suspiciously  at  that  little,  moving  bundle  of 
flannel  in  nurse's  lap.  It's  clear  he's  had  a  hard  time  of  it, 
what  with  tears  and  molasses !  The  little  shining  curls,  that 
you  have  so  often  rolled  over  your  finger  are  a  tangled  mass ; 
9  E 


98  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

and  you  lonp;  to  take  him  and  make  liim  comfortable,  and 
cosset  him  a  little;  and  then,  baby  cries  again,  and  you  turn 
your  head  to  the  pillow  with  a  smothered  sigh.  Nurse  hears 
it,  and  Charlie  is  taken  struggling  from  the  room.  You  take 
your  watch  from  under  your  pillow,  to  see  if  husband  won't  be 
home  soon,  and  then  look  at  nurse,  who  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff 
over  your  gruel,  and  sits  down,  nodding  drowsily,  with  the 
baby  in  an  alarming  proximity  to  the  fire.  Now  you  hear  a 
dear  step  on  the  stairs.  It's  your  Charlie !  How  bright  he 
looks !  and  what  nice  fresh  air  he  brings  with  him  from  out 
of  doors !  He  parts  the  bed-curtains,  looks  in,  and  pats  you 
on  the  cheek.  You  just  want  to  lay  your  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  have  such  a  splendid  cry !  but  there  sits  that  old  Gorgon 
of  a  nurse — she  don't  believe  in  husbands,  she  don't !  You 
make  Charlie  a  Free  Mason  sign  to  send  her  down-stairs  for 
something.  He  says,  right  out  loud — men  are  so  stupid ! — 
'*  What  did  you  say,  dear  ?"  Of  course  you  protest  you  didn't 
say  a  word — never  tho't  of  such  a  thing !  and  cuddle  your 
head  down  to  your  ruffled  pillows,  and  cry  because  you  are 
weak  and  weary,  and  full  of  care  for  your  family,  and  don't 
want  to  see  anybody  but  "  Charlie."  Nurse  says  "  she  shall 
have  you  sick,"  and  tells  your  husband  "^he'd  better  go  down, 
and  let  you  go  to  sleep."  Off  he  goes,  wondering  what  on 
earth  ails  you  to  cry !  wishes  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  lie 
still,  and  be  waited  upon !  After  dinner  he  comes  in  to  bid 
you  good-bye  before  he  goes  to  his  office ;  whistles  "  Nelly  Bly" 
loud  enough  to  wake  up  the  baby,  whom  he  calls  a  "  comical 
little  concern,"  and  then  puts  his  dear,  thoughtless  head  down 
to  your  pillow,  at  a  signal  from  you,  to  hear  what  you  have  to 
say.  Well,  there's  no  help  for  it,  you  cry  again,  and  only  say, 
"  Dear  Charlie ;"  and  he  laughs  and  settles  his  dickey,  and 
says  you  are  a  "  nervous  little  puss,"  gives  you  a  kiss,  lights  his 
cigar  at  the  fire,  half  strangles  the  new  baby  with  the  first 
whiff,   and   dikes    vniir   heart  off    with   him   down   the  sti'eet. 


BABYHOOr).  99 

And  you  lie  there  and  eat  that  gruel  I  and  pick  the  fuzz  all 
off  the  blanket,  and  make  faces  at  the  nurse,  under  the  sheet, 
and  wish  Eve  had  never  ate  that  apple — Genesis  iii.  16;  or 
that  you  were  "  Abel  to  Cain"  for  doing  it ! 

Fanny   Fern. 


BABY. 

/^N  tip-toe  I  entered  the  bed-room  of  baby; 

And  trembling  I  parted  the  gossamer  curtains 
Where  baby  lay,  fair  as  a  fresh  morning  glory. 

Like  petals  of  purest  and  pinkest  petunias, 
Four  delicate  fingers  crept  out  of  their  nestling. 
Transparent  and  chubby,  they  rest  on  the  crib's  edge. 
And  draping  the  fingers,  a  fringe  of  crochet-work, 
As  flossy  and  light  as  a  net-web  of  snow  lace, 
Lay,  kissing  them  daintily — ever  so  daintily ! 
Nidls  soft  and  so  tiny,  and  tinted  like  pink-buds. 
Looked  up  to  me  temptingly — "ever  so  cunning;" 
And  asked  me  to  kiss  them,  and  oh !  how  I  longed  to, 
But  dare  not,  for  baby  was  smiling  so  sweetly 
I  knew  he  beheld  then  an  angel-face  near  him. 

Loose  ringed,  on  his  temples  of  pure  alabaster. 
Lay  curls  of  the  softest  and  lightest  of  texture, 
As  sketched  by  a  crayon  of  delicate  gold-tint; 
Such  curls  as  the  gods  gave  to  Cupid  and  Psyche ! 
Those  kissable  curls,  with  their  live,  springing  tendrils. 
Came  up  to  my  lips,  and  went  down  to  my  heart-strings. 

Those  eyelids  so  filmy,  translucent  as  amber, 

Were  colored  and  toned  by  the  blue  eyes  beneath  them. 

To  softest  of  purple.     0,  marvellous  eyelids ! 


100  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Ah !  what  is  this  clinging  so  close  to  my  heart-string, 
'Tis  fear — that  I  know  by  the  thrill  in  my  bosom  ? 
'Tis  born  of  these  ringlets  and  fingers  and  eyelids : 
Born  of  this  beauty  too  precious  for  mortals ; 
It  tells  me  I  look  on  the  face  of  an  angel 
That  lies  there  deceiving  my  soul  by  concealing 
Its  pinions  beneath  the  blue  waves  of  the  velvet. 

I'll  wake  him  !  the  darling !  with  kisses  I'll  wake  him. 
There !  there !  I  have  reddened  the  white  brow  of  baby, 
Between  those  two  limnings  of  delicate  lace  work — 
The  rarest  of  eyebrows ;  his  laugh  reassures  me ! 
I'll  crush  him  down  hard,  wings  and  all,  on  my  bosom ! 

Knickerbocker. 


A  VEKSE   rOK   THE   YOUNG   MOTHER   TO   PAKOBY. 

nPHEIlE'S  not  a  sabre  meets  her  eye, 

But  with  his  life-blood  seems  to  swim ; 
There's  not  an  arrow  wings  the  sky, 
But  fancy  turns  its  point  to  him ! 

T,   Moore. 


A    NURSERY   SONG. 

T  HAD  a  little  baby  once, 
J-  I  called  him  "  AVakeful  Willie;" 
He  would  not  go  to  sleep  one  night. 
He  was  so  very  silly. 

I  went  and  asked  the  moolly  cow. 
If  in  her  arms  she'd  lock  him, 

And  if  she  could  but  spare  the  time, 
Would  just  sit  down  and  rock  him  ? 


BABYHOOD.  101 

She  said  she  had  no  rocking-chair, 

pjlse  would  she  he  quite  willing  j 
But  she'd  give  him  supper  of  new  milk, 

And  neyer  ask  a  shilling. 

I  asked  the  horse  to  leave  his  oats, 

The  old  horse  in  the  stable, 
And  come  and  rock  my  boy  to  sleep. 

And  sing  if  he  were  able. 

But  he  had  been  a  journey  long. 

He  said,  and  felt  quite  weary; 
Else  would  he  find  his  prettiest  song, 

And  sing  it  to  my  deary. 

I  asked  the  cat,  upon  the  mat, 

To  rock  my  babe  to  slumber; 
Says  Puss,  "  I  never  rocked  a  babe. 

Though  I've  had  quite  a  number. 

"  Besides,  the  rat  is  in  his  hole, 
And  I  have  got  to  watch  him, 
And  there's  a  mouse,  about  the  house, 
And  I  have  got  to  catch  him !" 

The  croaking  frog,  down  in  the  bog. 
Among  the  reeds  was  sprawling, 
"  Come  up,"  said  I,  "  and  hush  my  boy, 
For  music  is  thy  calling." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  sadly  said, 

"  Though  music  my  delight  is. 
Yet  once  I  wet  my  feet,  and  since, 

I'm  troubled  with  bronchitis." 


102  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

I  went  and  asked  the  speckled  hen, 
Beneath  her  wings  to  fold  him, 

To  sing  him  all  the  songs  she  knew, 
And  if  he  stirred,  to  scold  him ! 

She  said,  "  Her  babies  slept  so  well, 
She  never  sang  a  quaver. 

Nor  could  she  even  sing  a  song, 
If  from  the  cook  'twould  save  her. 

The  white  owl  in  the  cypress  tree, 

Looked  gentle  as  a  lily, 
I  asked  her  to  come  in,  and  sing 

A  song  to  "  Wakeful  Willie." 

She  stared  at  me  with  two  great  eyes, 
And  said,  "  She  could  not  now  sing. 

For  wise  folks  were  but  just  awake. 
And  'twas  her  time  for  mousing." 

I  knew  the  song-birds  were  asleep. 
And  sleep  they  would  till  morning; 

For  Robin  nodded  as  he  sang. 
And  Whippoorwill  was  yawning. 

I  looked  about  in  hope  to  see, 
The  nightingale  and  mavis. 

When  up  stairs  hopped  a  pretty  bird, 
'Twas  Willie's  sister  Avis. 

And  Avis  sang  till  Willie  slept, 
As  well  as  she  was  able, 

Wliilc  mother  went  to  pour  out  tea 
For   Father  at   the   talile. 


BABYHOOD.  103 


THOUGHTS   WHILE   SHE  KOCKS   THE   CKABLE. 

"TTTH AT  is  tlie  little  one  tliiuking  about  ? 
Very  wonderful  things,  no  doubt. 

Unwritten  history ! 

Unfathomable  mystery ! 
But  he  laughs  and  cries,  and  eats  and  drinks, 
And  chuckles  and  crows,  and  nods  and  winks. 
As  if  his  head  were  as  full  of  kinks 
And  curious  riddles  as  any  sphynx ! 

Warped  by  colic  and  wet  by  tears, 
Punctured  by  pins  and  tortured  by  fears, 
Our  little  nephew  will  lose  two  years; 

And  he'll  never  know 

Where  the  summers  go ! 

He  need  not  laugh,  for  he'll  find  it  so ! 

Who  can  tell  what  the  baby  thinks  ? 
Who  can  follow  the  gossamer  links 

By  which  the  manikin  feels  his  way, 
Out  from  the  shores  of  the  great  unknown. 
Blind,  and  wailing,  and  alone, 

Into  the  light  of  day  ? 
Out  from  the  shores  of  the  unknown  sea. 
Tossing  in  pitiful  agony ! 

Of  the  unknown  sea  that  reels  and  rolls. 
Specked  with  the  barks  of  little  souls — 
Barks  that  launched  on  the  other  side. 
And  slipped  from  heaven  on  an  ebbing  tide ! 
And  what  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  eyes  ? 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  hair? 
What  of  the  cradle  roof  that  flies 

Forward  and  backward  through  the  air  ? 


10-i  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

What  does  he  think  of  his  mother's  breast, 
Bare  and  beautiful,  smooth  and  white, 
Seeking  it  ever  with  fresh  delight, 

Cup  of  his  joy,  and  couch  of  his  rest? 

What  does  he  think  when  her  quick  embrace 

Presses  his  hand,  and  buries  his  face 

Deep  where  the  heart-throbs  sink  and  swell 

With  a  tenderness  she  can  never  tell  ? 

Though  she  murmur  the  words  of  all  the  birds — 

Words  she  has  learned  to  murmur  so  well ! 

Now  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  sleep  I 

I  can  see  the  shadows  creep 

Over  his  eyes  in  soft  eclipse, 

Out  in  his  little  finger  tips. 

Softly  sinking  down  he  goes, 

Down  he  goes,  down  he  goes. 

See !  he  is  hushed  in  sweet  repose ! 


PHILIP,   MY   KING. 

"Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignt}'." 

T  OOK  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip,  my  King. 
Round  where  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities ; 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 

With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command. 

Till  thou  shalt  find  a  quooH-liandmaiden, 
Philip,  my  King. 


BABYHOOD.  105 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a  -wooing, 

Philip,  my  King ! 
When  tliose  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing, 
Thou  dost  enter  love-crowned,  and  there 

Sittcst  love  glorified.     Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly  over  thy  kingdom  fair ; 

For  we  that  love,  ah !  vpe  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  King. 

Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth,  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip,  my  King ! 
The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  ride  like  a  giant,  and  make  men  bow, 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers — 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and  fairer. 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years ; 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  King. 

A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm — one  day, 

Philip,  my  King ! 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny  and  cruel,  and  cold  and  gray; 
Rebels  within  thee,  and  foes  without. 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But  march  on  glorious. 
Martyr,  yet  monarch,  till  angels  shout. 

As  thou  sit'st  at  the  feet  of  God,  victorious, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

Miss  Muloch, 


H 


E  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest ; 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
E  » 


106  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


OUK  BABY. 


T\ID  you  ever  see  our  baby? 
^    Little  Tot; 

With  ber  eyes  so  sparkling  bright, 
And  her  skin  so  lily  white, 
Lips  and  cheeks  of  rosy  light — 

Tell  you  what. 
She  is  just  the  sweetest  baby 

In  the  lot. 

Ah !  she  is  our  only  darling, 

And  to  me 
All  her  little  ways  are  witty; 
And  when  she  sings  her  little  ditty, 
Every  word  is  just  as  pretty 

As  can  be — 
Not  another  in  the  city 

Sweet  as  she. 

You  don't  think  so — never  saw  her. 

Wish  you  could 
See  her  with  her  playthings  clattering, 
Hear  her  little  tongue  a  chattering; 
Little  dancing  feet  come  pattering — 

Think  you  would 
Love  her  just  as  well  I  do. 

If  you  could ! 

Every  grandma's  only  darling, 

I  suppose. 
Is  as  sweet  and  bright  a  blossom, 
Is  a  treasure  to  her  bosom, 


UABYIWOI).  107 

Is  us  cheering  and  endearing, 

As  my  rose. 
Heavenly  Father,  spare  them  to  us. 

Till  life's  close. 

Mrs.   Gage. 


NOT   AN   EYEKY-DAY   BABY. 

"U'OU  know  how  apt  babies  are  to  be  remarkable ;  but,  sir, 
perhaps  you  never  saw  a  baby  like  this ;  I  presume  to  say, 
you  never  did.  That  it  is  fair  and  round-faced ;  that  it  never 
cries;  that  it  is  always  "jolly,"  so  to  speak.  These  things  are 
something,  but  what  I  have  to  add,  is  the  penetrating  sagacity 
with  which  it  selects  out  one  particular  person,  and  wherever 
that  person  may  go — up,  down,  or  sideways,  there  follow  the 
baby's  eyes  with  the  pertinacity  of  a  magnet !  And  who  do 
you  suppose  is  that  individual  ?  The  father  ?  the  mother  ?  or 
grandfather  ?  No,  sir  !  I  am  that  individual !  You  will  ask, 
perhaps,  if  I  am  all  the  time  dandling  it.  Never  had  the 
baby  in  my  arms  but  once  in  my  life,  and  then — but,  as  I  was 
saying,  there  is  no  doubt  it  will  be  an  extraordinary  child. 


CHILDREN. 

T^HE  smallest  are  near  to  God,  as  the  smallest  planets  are 
nearest  the  sun.  Were  I  only  for  a  time  almighty  and 
powerful,  I  would  create  a  little  world  especially  for  myself, 
and  suspend  it  under  the  mildest  sun,  a  world  where  I  would 
have  nothing  but  lovely  little  children,  and  these  little  things 
I  would  never  suffer  to  grow  up,  but  only  to  play  eternally 


108  Jl  OS  A  JUS  OF  LIFE. 

If  a  seraph  were  worthy  of  heaven,  or  his  golden  pinions 
drooped,  I  would  send  him  to  dwell  for  awhile  in  my  happy 
infant  world,  and  no  angel,  so  long  as  he  saw  their  innocence, 
could  lose  his  own. 

Jean   Paul. 


LETTEK  TO  A  NEW  BOKN  CHILD. 

"VrOU  are  heartily  welcome,  my  dear  little  cousin,  into  this 
unquiet  world ;  long  may  you  continue  in  it  in  all  the 
happiness  it  can  give,  and  bestow  enough  on  all  your  friends, 
to  answer  fully  the  impatience  with  which  you  have  been 
expected.  May  you  grow  up  to  have  every  accomplishment 
that  your  good  friend,  the  Bishop  of  Derry,  can  already 
imagine  in  you;  and  in  the  meantime,  may  you  have  a  nurse 
with  a  tuneable  voice,  who  may  not  talk  an  immoderate  deal 
of  nonsense  to  you.  You  are  at  present,  my  dear,  in  a  very 
philosophic  disposition ;  the  gaieties  and  follies  of  life  have 
no  attraction  for  you ;  its  sorrows  you  kindly  commiserate ! 
but,  however,  do  not  suffer  them  to  disturb  your  slumbers,  and 
find  charms  in  nothing  but  harmony  and  repose.  You  have 
as  yet  contracted  no  partialities,  are  entirely  ignorant  of  party 
distinctions,  and  look  with  a  perfect  indifference  on  all  human 
splendor.  You  have  an  absolute  dislike  to  the  vanities  of 
dress;  and  are  likely  for  many  months,  to  observe  the  Bishop 
of  Bristol's*  first  rule  of  conversation.  Silence,  though  tempted 
to  transgress  it  by  the  novelty  and  strangeness  of  all  objects 
around  you.  As  you  advance  further  in  life  this  philosophic 
temper  will,  by  degrees,  wear  off;  the  first  object  of  your 
admiration  will  probably  be  the  candle,  and  thence  (as  we  all 
of  us  do)   you  will  contract  a  taste  for  the  gaudy  and  the 

*  Seeker,  aftcrwnrils  Aroliliisljop  of  Canterbury. 


BAnyuooi).  109 

glaring,  without  making  one  moral  reflection  upon  the  danger 
of  such  false  admiration  as  leads  people  many  a  time  to  burn 
their  fingers.  You  will  then  begin  to  show  great  partiality  for 
some  very  good'aunts,  who  will  contribute  all  they  can  towards 
spoiling  you-  but  you  will  be  equally  fond  of  an  excellent 
mamma,  who  will  teach  you,  by  her  example,  all  sorts  of  good 
qualities ;  only  let  me  warn  you  of  one  thing,  my  dear,  that  is 
not  to  learn  of  her  to  have  such  an  immoderate  love  of  home 
as  is  cjuite  contrary  to  all  the  2)rivileges  of  this  polite  age,  and 
to  give  up  so  entirely  all  those  pretty  graces  of  whim,  flutter, 
and  aftection,  which  so  many  charitable  poets  have  declared  to 
be  the  prerogative  of  our  sex.  Oh  !  my  poor  cousin,  to  what 
purpose  will  you  boast  this  prerogative,  when  your  nurse  tells 
you,  (with  a  pious  care  to  sow  the  seeds  of  jealousy  and  emula- 
tion as  early  as  possible,)  that  you  have  a  fine  little  brother 
"  come  to  put  your  nose  out  of  joint  ?"  There  will  be  nothing 
to  be  done  then  but  to  be  mighty  good;  and  prove  what, 
believe  me,  admits  of  very  little  dispute  (though  it  has  occa- 
sioned abundance)  that  we  girls,  however  people  give  them- 
selves airs  of  being  disappointed,  are  by  no  means  to  be 
despised.  The  men  unenvied  shine  in  public ;  but  it  is  we 
must  make  their  homes  delightful  to  them ;  and,  if  they  pro- 
voke us,  no  less  uncomfortable.  I  do  not  expect  you  to  answer 
this  letter  yet  awhile ;  but,  as  I  dare  say,  you  have  the  greatest 
interest  with  your  papa,  will  beg  yon  to  prevail  upon  him  that 
we  may  know  by  a  line  (before  his  time  is  engrossed  by  another 
secret  committee)  that  yon  and  your  mamma  are  well.  In  the 
meantime,  I  will  only  assure  you  that  all  here  rejoice  in  your 
existence  extremely;  and  that  I  am,  my  very  young  corre- 
spondent, most  affectionately  yours,  &c. 

Catherine  Talbot. 
10 


110  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


THE   KETUKN. 
/  \NE  climbs  into  his  arms,  another   • 

Clings  smiling  reund  his  knee ; 
A  third  is  lifted  by  its  mother 

Its  father's  face  to  see  3 
The  cradled  innocent,  his  youngest  treasure, 
Holds  out  his  dimpled  arms,  and  crows  for  pleasure. 


"  TF  he  isn't  fast  asleep.  Lord  !  Lord  !"  cried  Jem,  gazing 
at  the  child,  "  who,  to  look  upon  a  sleeping  baby,  and  to 
know  what  things  are  every  day  done  in  the  world,  would  ever 
think  that  all  men  were  sleejnng  habes  once !  Put  it  to  bed, 
Sue !" 

St.  Giles  and  St.  James. 


THE   CKILD-POET. 

"VrOU  have  watched  a  child  playing,  in  those  wondrous  years 
when  belief  is  not  bound  to  the  eyes  and  the  ears,  and  the 
vision  divine  is  so  clear  and  unmarred,  that  each  baker  of  pies 
in  the  dirt  is  a  bard !  Give  a  knife  and  a  shingle,  he  fits  out 
a  fleet,  and,  on  that  little  mud-puddle  over  the  street,  his 
invention,  in  purest  good  faith,  will  make  sail  round  the  globe 
with  a  puff  of  his  breath  for  a  gale,  will  visit,  in  barely  ten 
minutes,  all  climes,  and  find  North-western  passages  hundreds 
of  times.  Or,  suppose  the  young  poet  fresh  stored  with 
delights  from  that  Bible  of  childhood,  the  Arabian  Nights,  he 
will  turn  to  a  crony,  and  cry,  "  Jack,  let's  play  that  I  am  a 
Genius !"  Jacky  straightway  makes  Aladdin's  lamp  out  of  a 
stone,  and  for  hours  they  enjoy  each  his  own  supernatural 
powers. 

James   Russel   Lowell. 


BABYHOOD.  Ill 


SIMPLE   PLEASUKES. 


■you  need  not  surround  your  children  with  a  little  world  of 
-*-  turner's  toys.  Let  their  eggs  be  white,  not  figured  and 
painted;  they  can  dress  them  out  of  their  own  imaginations. 

Jean   Paul. 


T\0  you  think  that  a  child  who  will  spend  an  hour  delightedly 
-*-^  in  galloping  round  the  garden  on  his  horse,  which  horse 
is  a  stick,  regards  that  stick  as  a  mere  bit  of  wood  ?  No ;  that 
stick  is  to  him  instinct,  with  imaginings  of  a  pony's  pattering 
feet,  and  shaggy  mane,  and  erect  little  ears, 

^  Boyd. 


A 


ND  children  are  more  busy  at  their  play 
Than  those  that  wiseliest  pass  their  time  away. 


Samuel   Butler. 


npRULY,  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  blessed  or  so  sweet 
as  the  heritage  of  bairns. 

Mrs.  Oliphant. 


A   PICTUKE. 

rFHE  bonnie,  bonnie  bairn,  who  sits  with  careless  grace, 

Griowing  in  the  fire,  with  his  wee,  round  face, 
For  all  so  sage  he  looks,  what  can  the  laddie  ken? 
He's  thinking  of  nothing ;   like  many  mighty  men. 

James   Ballantyne. 


112  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


DOMESTIC   BLISS. 

[A    Fragment.] 

I  am 
"  A  married  lady  of  thirty  odd." 
Every  evening  I  see  in  their  beds 
A  "  baker's,  dozen"  of  curly  heads ; 
Every  morning'  my  slumbers  greet 
The  patter,  patter,  of  twenty-six  feet. 
Thirteen  little  hearts  are  always  in  a  flutter, 
Till  thirteen  little  mouths  are  filled  with  bread  and  butter. 
Thirteen  little  tongues  are  busy  all  day  long, 
And  thirteen  little  hands  with  doing  something  wrong. 

Till  I  fain  am  to  do 

With  an  energy  too. 
As  did  the  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  shoe. 
And  when  my  poor  husband  comes  home  from  his  work, 
Tired  and  hungry,  and  fierce  as  a  Turk, 
What  do  you  think  is  the  picture  he  sees  ? 
A  legion  of  babies,  all  in  a  breeze. 

Johnny  a  crying, 

And  Lucy  a  sighing, 
And  worn-out  mamma,  with  her  hair  all  a  flying. 

Strong  and  angry  Stephen 
Beating  little  Nelly ; 

Willie  in  the  pantry 
Eating  currant  jelly; 
Charlie  strutting  round  in  papa's  Sunday  coat; 
Harry  at  the  glass,  with  a  razor  at  his  throat; 
Robert  gets  his  fingers  crushed  when  Susy  shuts  the  door. 
Mitigates  their  aching  with  a  forty  pounder  roar; 
Baby  at  the  coal-hod  hurries  to  begin 
Throwin";  in  his  mite  to  the  universal  din. 


BABYHOOD.  113 

Alas !  my  lord  and  master,  being  rather  weak  of  nerve,  lie 
Begins  to  lose  his  patience  in  the  stunning  topsy-turvy, 
And  then  the  frightened  little  ones  all  fly  to  me  for  shelter, 
And  so  the  drama  closes  'mid  a  general  helter-skelter. 

I'll  give  you  my  name, 

Lest  you  think  me  a  myth ; 

Yours,  very  respectfully, 

Mrs.  John   Smith. 


THE   MOTHER'S   COMPLAINT. 

TT7EARIED  is  the  mother 

*     That  has  a  restless  wean, 
A  wee,  stumpy  bairnie. 

Heard  whene'er  he's  seen ; 
That  has  a  battle,  aye,  with  sleep 

Before  he'll  close  an  e'e ; 
But  a  kiss  from  off  his  rosy  lips 

Grives  strength  anew  to  me. 


William  Miller. 


THE   CHARGE   OE   INEANTKY. 

"DETSEY'S  got  another  baby! 

Charming  precious  little  type ! 
Grrandma  says — and  she  knows,  surely- 

That  you  never  saw  its  like. 
Isn't  it  a  beaming  beauty. 

Lying  there  so  sweet  and  snug? 
Mrs.  Jones,  pray  stop  your  scandal; 
Darling's  nose  is  not  a  pug ! 
10* 


114  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Some  one  says  'tis  Pa  all  over, 

Whereat  I'a  turns  rather  red, 
And,  to  scan  his  features,  quickly 

To  the  looking-glass  has  fled; 
But  recovers  his  composure. 

When  he  hears  the  nurse's  story, 
Who  admits  that  of  all  babies 

This  indeed's  the  crowning  glory ! 

Aunt  Liicretia  says  she  guesses — 

Says,  indeed,  she  knows  it,  pos, 
That  't  will  prove  to  be  a  greater 

Man  than  e'er  its  father  was; 
Proving  thus  the  modern  thesis 

Held  by  reverend  doctors  sage, 
That  in  babies,  as  in  wisdom. 

This  is  a  "  progressive"  age. 

Uncle  Henry  looks  and  wonders 

At  so  great  a  prodigy; 
Close  and  closer  still  he  presses, 

Thinking  something  brave  to  see. 
Up  they  hold  the  babe  before  him, 

While  they  gather  in  a  ring, 
But,  alas !  the  staggered  uncle 

Vainly  tries  his  praise  to  sing. 

As  he  stares,  the  lovely  infant. 

Nestling  by  its  mother's  side, 
Opes  its  little  mouth,  and  singing, 

Gurgles  forth  a  milky  tide. 
Uncle  tries  to  hide  his  blushes, 

Looks  about  to  find  his  hat, 
Stumbles  blindly  o'er  the  cradle, 

And  upsets  the  startled  cat. 


BABYHOOD.  115 

Why,  0,  why  such  awkward  blunders  ? 

Better  far  have  stayed  away, 
Nor  have  thrust  yourself  where  woman 

Holds  an  undisputed  sway ; 
Do  you  think  that  now  they'll  name  it. 

As  they  mean  to,  after  you  ? 
Wretched  mortal !  let  me  answer, 

You're  deluded  if  you  do ! 

Round  about  the  noisy  women 

Pass  the  helpless  stranger  now, 
Raptured  with  each  nascent  feature. 

Chin  and  mouth  and  eyes  and  brow; 
And  for  this  young  bud  of  promise 

All  neglect  the  rose  in  bloom, 
Eldest  born,  who,  quite  forgotten, 

Pouts  within  her  lonely  room. 

Sound  the  stage-horn !  ring  the  cow-bell ! 

That  the  waiting  world  may  know ; 
Publish  it  throiigh  all  our  borders, 

Even  unto  Mexico. 
Seize  your  pen,  0,  dreaming  poet ! 

And  in  numbers  smooth  as  may  be. 
Spread  afar  the  joyful  tidings, 

Betsey's  got  another  baby ! 

Knickerbocker. 


SOME   ACCOUNT   Or   A   KEMAKKABLE   BABY. 

TT  was  2^  'peculiarity  of  this  baby  to  be  always  cutting  teeth. 

Whether  they  never  came,  or  whether  they  came  and  went 

away  again,  is  not  in  evidence ;  but  it  had  certainly  cut  enough, 

on  the  showing  of  its  mother,  to  make  a  handsome  dental  pro- 


11(3  iMOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

vision  for  the  sign  of  the  Bull  and  Month.  All  sorts  of  ohjects 
were  impressed  for  the  rubbing  of  its  gums,  notwithstanding 
that  it  always  carried,  dangling  at  its  waist,  (which  was  imme- 
diately under  its  chin,)  a  bone  ring,  large  enough  to  have 
represented  the  rosary  of  a  young  nun.  Knife-handles,  um- 
brella-tops, the  heads  of  walking-sticks  selected  from  the  stock, 
the  fingers  of  the  family,  nutmog-graters,  crusts,  the  handles 
of  doors,  and  the  cool  knobs  on  the  tops  of  pokers,  were  among 
the  commonest  instruments  indiscriminately  applied  for  the 
baby's  relief  The  amount  of  electricity  that  must  have  been 
rubbed  out  of  it  in  a  week,  is  not  to  be  calculated.  Still  its 
mother  always  said,  "  It  was  coming  through,  and  then  the  child 
would  he  herself"  and  still  it  never  did  come  thi-ough,  and  the 
child  continued  to  be  somebody  else. 

Charles   Dickens. 


0 


BANISH  the  tears  of  children !  continual  rains  upon  the 
blossoms  are  hurtful. 


Jean  Paul. 


TWO   YEAIRS   OLD. 

"PLAYINGr  on  the  carpet  near  me, 

-^    Is  a  little  cherub  girl; 

And  her  presence,  much  I  fear  me, 

Sets  my  senses  in  a  whirl; 
For  a  book  is  near  me  lying. 
Full  of  grave  philosophizing, 
And  I  own  I'm  vainly  trying, 

There  my  thoughts  to  liold; 
But,  in  spite  of  my  essaying. 
They  will  evermore  be  straying 
To  that  cherub  near  me  playing, 

Only  two  years  old. 


n  Anvil  ODD.  11' 

With  her  hair  so  long  and  flaxen, 

And  her  sunny  eyes  of  bhie, 
And  her  cheek  so  plump  and  waxen, 

She  is  charming  to  the  view. 
Then  her  voice,  to  all  who  hear  it. 
Breathes  a  sweet  entrancing  spirit. 
Oh,  to  be  forever  near  it. 

Is  a  joy  untold; 
For  'tis  ever  sweetly  telling 
To  my  heart,  with  rapture  swelling, 
Of  affection  inly  dwelling — 

Only  two  years  old. 

With  a  new  delight  I'm  hearing 

All  her  sweet  attempts  at  words 
In  their  melody  endearing. 

Sweeter  far  than  any  bird's; 
And  the  musical  mistaking 
Which  her  baby  lips  are  making. 
For  my  heart  a  charm  is  waking 

Firmer  in  its  hold 
Than  the  charm  so  rich  and  glowing, 
From  the  Roman's  lip  o'erflowing; 
Then  she  gives  a  look  so  knowing, 

Only  two  years  old. 

Now  her  ripe  and  honeyed  kisses, 

(Honeyed,  ripe,  for  me  alone,) 
Thrill  my  soul  with  varied  blisses 

Venus  never  yet  hath  known. 
When  her  twining  arms  are  round  me, 
All  domestic  joy  hath  crowned  me, 
And  a  fervent  spell  hath  bound  me, 

Never  to  grow  old. 


118  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

0,  there's  not,  this  side  of  Aidcn, 
Aught  with  loveliness  so  laden, 
As  my  little  cheruh  maiden 
Only  two  years  old. 


A   PAKICNTAL   ODE   TO   MY   SON, 

Aged  Three  Years  and   Five   Months. 

Thou  happy,  happy  elf! 
(But  stop — first  let  me  kiss  away  that  tear) 

Thou  tiny  image  of  my.self ! 
(My  love,  he's  poking  peas  into  his  ear !) 

Thou  merry,  laughing  sprite ! 

With  spirits  feather  light. 
Untouched  by  sorrow,  and  unsoiled  by  sin, 
(Good  heavens !   the  child  is  swallowing  a  pin !) 

Thou  little  tricksy  Puck! 
With  antic  toys  so  funnily  bestuck, 
Light  as  the  singing  bird  that  wings  the  air, 
(The  door,  the  door !  he'll  tumble  down  the  stair !) 

Thou  darling  of  thy  sire  ! 
(Why,  Jane,  he'll  set  his  pinafore  afire!) 

Thou  imp  of  mirth  and  joy ! 
In  love's  dear  chain  so  strong  and  bright  a  link, 
Thou  idol  of  thy  parents  (Drat  the  boy ! 

There  goes  my  ink !) 

Thou  cherub — but  of  earth ; 
Fit  playfellow  for  Fays  by  moonlight  pale, 

In  harmless  spf)rt  and  mirth, 
(Tbat  dog  will  bite  him   if  lie  ])ulls  its  tail!) 


BABY  110  on.  110 

Thou  human  humming-bee,  extracting  honey 
From  every  blossom  in  the  world  that  blows, 

Singing  in  youth's  Elysium  ever  sunny, 

(Another  tumble — that's  his  precious  nose !) 
Thy  father's  pride  and  hope ! 

(He'll  break  the  mirror  with  that  skipping-rope  !) 

With  pure  heart  newly  stamped  from  nature's  mint, 

(Where  did  he  learn  that  squint !) 

Thou  young  domestic  dove ! 
(He'll  have  that  jug  oif  with  another  shove !) 

Dear  nursling  of  the  hymeneal  nest! 

(Are  those  torn  clothes  his  best?) 

Little  epitome  of  man ! 
(He'll  climb  upon  the  table,  that's  his  plan  !) 
Touched  with  the  beauteous  tints  of  dawning  life, 

(He's  got  a  knife !) 

Thou  enviable  being ! 
No  storms,  no  clouds,  in  thy  blue  sky  foreseeing. 

Play  on,  play  on, 

My  elfin  John! 

Toss  the  light  ball — bestride  the  stick, 
(I  knew  so  many  cakes  would  make  him  sick!) 
With  fancies  buoyant  as  the  thistle-down. 
Prompting  the  face  grotesque  and  antic  brisk 

With  many  a  lamb-like  frisk, 
(He's  got  the  scissors,  snipping  at  your  gown !) 

Thou  pretty  opening  rose ! 
(Gro  to  your  mother,  child,  and  wipe  your  nose  !) 
Balmy,  and  breathing  music  like  the  south, 
(He  really  brings  my  heart  into  my  mouth !) 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  brilliant  as  its  star, 
(I  wish  that  window  had  an  iron  bar !) 


Fklgoni. 


120  MOSATOS  OF  LIFE. 

Bold  as  tlie  hawk,  yet  gentle  as  the  dove, 

(I'll  tell  you  what,  my  love, 

I  cannot  write,  unless  he's  sent  above !) 

Thomas  Hood. 


rOUK   YEAKS    OLD. 

A   Nursery  Song. 

Picn  d'iiinor, 
Pien  di  cauto,  c  picn  di  fiori. 

A  H,  little  ranting  Johnny, 
For  ever  blithe  and  bonny, 
And  singing  uonny,  nonny, 
AVith  hat  just  thrown  upon  ye; 
Or  whistling  like  the  thrushes, 
AYith  voice  in  silver  gushes; 
Or  twisting  random  posies 
With  daisies,  weeds,  and  roses; 
And  strutting  in  and  out  so. 
Or  dancing  all  about  so; 
With  cock-up  nose  so  lightsome, 
And  sidelong  eyes  so  brightsomc 
And  cheeks  as  ripe  as  apples, 
And  head  as  rough  as  Dapple's, 
And  army  as  sunny  shining 
As  if  their  veins  they'd  wine  in. 
And  mouth  that  smiles  so  truly. 
Heaven  seems  to  have  made  it  newly; 
It  breaks  into  such  sweetness 
With  merry-lipped  completeness; 
Ah,  Jack,  ah,  Giovanni  mio. 
As  blithe  as  Lan'ahinL;   Trii)'. 


BABYHOOD.  121 

Sir  Richard,  too,  your  rattler. 
So  christened  from  the  Tatlcr, 
My  Bacchus  in  his  glory, 
My  little  cor  di  fiori, 
My  tricksome  Puck,  my  Robin, 
Who  in  and  out  come  bobbing. 
As  full  of  feints  and  frolics  as 
That  fibbing  rogue,  Antolycus, 
And  play  the  graceless  robber  on 
Your  grave-eyed  brother,  Oberon ; 
Ah,  Dick,  ah,  che  dolce  riso. 
How  can  you,  can  you  be  so  ? 

One  cannot  turn  a  minute, 

But  mischief — there  you're  in  it; 

A  getting  at  my  books,  John, 

With  mighty  bustling  looks,  John; 

Or  poking  at  the  roses. 

In  midst  of  which  your  nose  is; 

Or  climbing  on  a  table, 

No  matter  how  unstable. 

And  turning  up  your  quaint  eye 

And  half-shut  teeth  with,  "Mayn't  I?" 

Or  else  you're  oif  at  play,  John, 

Just  as  you'd  be  all  day,  John, 

With  hat  or  not  as  happens; 

And  there  you  dance,  and  clap  hands, 

Or  on  the  grass  go  rolling. 

Or  plucking  flowers,  or  bowling. 

And  getting  me  expenses 

With  losing  balls  o'er  fences; 

Or,  as  the  constant  trade  is, 

Are  fondled  by  the  ladies 

11  F 


122  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

With,  "  What  a  young  rogue  this  is !" 

Eeforming  him  with  kisses; 

Till  suddenly  you  cry  out, 

As  if  you  had  an  eye  out, 

So  desperately  fearful. 

The  sound  is  really  fearful; 

When,  lo !   directly  after. 

It  bubbles  into  laughter. 

Ah,  rogue!  and  do  you  know,  John, 

Why,  'tis  we  love  you  so,  John? 

And  how  it  is  they  let  ye 

Do  what  you  like,  and  pet  ye, 

Though  all  who  look  upon  ye. 

Exclaim,  "Ah,  Johnny,  Johnny!" 

It  is  because  you  please  'em 

Still  more,  John,  than  you  teaze  'em ; 

Because,  too,  when  not  present, 

The  thought  of  you  is  pleasant; 

Because,  though  such  an  elf,  John, 

They  think  that  if  yourself,  John, 

Had  something  to  condemn,  too, 

You'd  be  as  kind  to  them,  too; 

In  short,  because  you're  very 

Good-tempered,  Jack,  and  merry  ; 

And  are  as  quick  at  giving 

As  easy  at  receiving; 

And  in  the  midst  of  pleasure 

Are  certain  to  find  leisure 

To  think,  my  boy,  of  ours, 

And  bring  us  heaps  of  flowers. 

But  see,  the  sun  shines  brightly; 
(Vimo,   put   your  hat   on   rightly, 


BATiYIIOOD.  123 

And  we'll  among  the  bushes, 

And  hear  yonr  friends,  the  thrushes; 

And  see  what  flowers  the  weather 

Has  rendered  fit  to  gather; 

And,  when  we  home  must  jog,  you 

Shall  ride  my  back,  you  rogue  you — 

Your  hat  adorned  with  fine  leaves, 

Horse-chestnut,  oak,  and  vine-leaves; 

And  so,  with  green  o'erhead,  John, 

Shall  whistle  home  to  bed,  John. 

Leigh   Hunt. 


THE  VJJ)-Z  IN   A   WHEEL-BAKKOW. 

~\T7H0  does  not  remember  the  keen  relish  of  the  rapid  run 
in  the  wheel-barrow  of  early  youth,  bumping  and  rolling 
about,  and  finally  turning  a  corner  at  full  speed  and  upsetting  ? 
Who  does  not  remember  the  delight  of  the  little  springless 
carriage  that  threatened  to  dislocate  and  grind  down  the  bones  ? 
Luxury  destroys  real  enjoyment.  There  is  more  real  enjoy- 
ment in  riding  in  a  wheel-barrow  than  in  driving  in  a  carriage- 
and-four. 

Boyd. 


AMANTIUM   IK^   AMOKIS   KEDINTEGRATIO   EST. 

TN  going  to  my  naked  bed,  as  one  that  would  have  slept, 

I  heard  a  wife  sing  to  her  child,  that  long  before  had  wept. 
She  sighed  sore,  and  sang  full  sweet,  to  bring  the  babe  to  rest, 
That  would  not  cease,  but  cried  still  in  sucking  at  her  breast. 


124  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

She  was  full  weary  of  lier  watcli,  and  grieved  with  her  child; 

She  rocked  it,  and  rated  it,  until  on  her  it  smiled ; 

Then  did  she  say,  "  Now  have  I  found  the  proverb  true  to 

prove, 
The  falling  out  of  faithful  friends  renewing  is  of  love." 

Richard  Edwards — 1523. 


The  hand  that  rocks  the  cradle  rules  the  world. 


nnHERE  is  a  very  general  notion,  that  if  you  once  suffer 
woman  to  eat  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  the  rest  of  the 
family  will  soon  be  reduced  to  the  same  kind  of  aerial  and 
unsatisfactory  diet !  *  ^-  *  *  *  *  Q.^^  anything  be  more 
absurd  than  to  suppose  that  the  care  and  perpetual  solicitude 
which  a  mother  feels  for  her  childi'en,  depends  upon  her 
ignorance  of  Greek  and  mathematics,  and  that  she  would  desert 
an  infant  for  a  quadratic  equation  ? 

Sydney  Smith. 


TATKEK  IS   COMING! 

~M'AY,  do  not  close  the  shutters,  child; 

For,  far  along  the  lane, 
The  little  window  looks,  and  he 

Can  see  it  shining  plain; 
I've  heard  him  say  he  loves  to  mark 
The  cheerful  fire-light  in  the  dark. 


BABYHOOD.  125 

I  know  lie's  coming  by  this  sign, 

That  baby's  almost  wild; 
See  how  he  laughs,  and  crows,  and  stares — 

Heaven  bless  the  merry  child; 
He's  father's  self  in  face  and  limb, 
And  father's  heart  is  strong  in  him. 

Hark !  hark !   I  hear  his  footsteps  now ; 

He's  through  the  garden-gate; 
Run,  little  Bess,  and  ope  the  door, 

And  do  not  let  him  wait; 
Shout,  baby,  shout!   and  clap  thy  hands, 
For  father  on  the  threshold  stands. 

Mary   HowiU. 


One's  hearth  is  a  fair  assize. 

Old  Proverb. 


A  MOTHER'S   MORNING  PRAYER. 

TTP  to  me  sweet  childhood  looketh, 

Heart  and  mind  and  soul  awake; 
Teach  me  of  thy  ways,  oh  Father ! 
For  sweet  childhood's  sake. 

In  their  young  hearts,  soft  and  tender, 
Gruide  my  hand  good  seed  to  sow, 

That  its  blossoming  may  praise  thee 
Wheresoe'er  they  go. 

Give  to  me  a  cheerful  spirit, 
That  my  little  flock  may  see 

It  is  good  and  pleasant  service 
To  be  taught  of  Thee. 
11 » 


126;  MOSAICS  OF  life. 

Father,  order  all  my  footsteps; 

So  direct  my  daily  way 
That,  in  following  me,  the  children 

May  not  go  astray. 

Let  thy  holy  counsel  lead  me — 
Let  thy  light  before  me  shine, 

That  they  may  not  stumble  over 
Word  or  deed  of  mine. 

Draw  us  hand  in  hand  to  Jesus, 
For  his  word's  sake — unforgot, 
"  Let  the  little  ones  come  to  me, 
And  forbid  them  not." 


TKKICNOBIA. 

TTOW  peacefully  they  rest, 
-^-^  Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast. 

Those  small  white  hands  that  ne'er  were  still  before, 
But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 

Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore ; 
Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 

To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 
That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise, 
Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 

To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm. 

Full  short  his  journey  was;  no  dust 

Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must. 

He  bore  not  to  the  jrravc. 


BABYHOOD.  127 

He  seemed  a  clierub  who  had  lost  his  way 
And  wandered  hither;  so  his  stay 

With  us  was  short;  and  'twas  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth's  clod,        "' 

Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God, 

0  blest  word — evermore  ! 

J.   R.   Lowell. 


CASA   WAPPY. 

[CasaWappy  was  the  self-conferred  pet  name  of  an  infant  son  of  the  poet, 
snatched  away  after  a  very  brief  illness.] 

A  ND  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home. 

Our  fond,  dear  boy — 
The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 

Where  life  is  joy  ? 
Pure  at  thy  death  as  at  thy  birth, 
Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth ; 
Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  death, 
Casa  Wappy! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 
Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 

When  thou  didst  die; 
Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee, 
Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 
Of  our  unfathomed  agony, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Do  what  I  may,  go  where  I  will. 

Thou  meet'st  my  sight; 
There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A  form  of  light ! 


]  28  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

I  feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 
I  see  thee  smile,  I  hear  thee  speak — 
Till  oh !  my  heart  is  like  to  break, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Methinks  thou  smil'st  before  me  now, 

With  glance  of  stealth; 
The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 

In  buoyant  health ; 
I  see  thine  eyes'  deep  violet  light, 
Thy  dimpled  cheek  caruationed  bright. 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat,  thy  bow. 
Thy  cloak  and  bonnet,  club  and  ball; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 
A  corner  holds  thine  empty  chair, 
Thy  playthings  idly  scattered  there, 
But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 
Casa  Wappy! 

Then  be  to  us,  0  dear,  lost  child  ! 

With  beam  of  love, 
A  star,  death's  uncongenial  wild 

Smiling  above ; 
Soon,  soon  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph's  road, 
That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Yet  'tis  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy. 
That  heaven  is  Grod's,  and  thou  art  there, 

With  him  in  joy; 


BABYHOOD.  129 


There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes, 
There  beauty's  stream  forever  flows, 
And  pleasure's  day  no  sunset  knows, 
Casa  Wappy! 

Farewell,  then — for  awhile,  farewell — 

Pride  of  my  heart ! 
It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell, 

Thus  torn  apart; 
Time's  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee : 
And,  dark  howe'er  life's  night  may  be. 
Beyond  the  grave  I'll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy! 


D.  M.   Moir. 


H  each  of  these  young  human  flowers 
God's  own  high  message  bears; 
And  we  are  walking  all  our  hours 
With  "Angels  unawares." 


R.    Edmonstone. 


VESPERS. 

A    ROW  of  little  faces  in  the  bed 

A  row  of  little  hands  upon  the  spread; 
A  row  of  little  roguish  eyes  all  closed; 
A  row  of  little  naked  feet  exposed; 
A  gentle  mother  leads  them  in  their  praise, 
Teaching  their  feet  to  tread  in  heavenly  ways. 
And  takes  this  lull  in  childhood's  tiny  tide. 
The  little  errors  of  the  day  to  chide. 


180  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

No  lovelier  siglit  this  side  of  heaven  is  seen, 
And  angels  hover  o'er  the  group  serene, 
Instead  of  odor  in  a  censer  swung, 
There  floats  the  fragrance  of  an  infant's  tongue. 
All  dressed  like  angels  in  their  gowns  of  white, 
They'i'e  wafted  to  the  skies  in  dreams  of  night; 
And  Heaven  will  sparkle  in  their  eyes  at  morn. 
And  stolen  graces  all  their  ways  adorn. 


CKILBKEN'S   PKAYEKS. 

r>NE  night  my  little  girl  was  wearied  with  a  long  walk.  As 
I  bade  her  good-night,  I  reminded  her  of  one  thing  to  be 
remembered  before  she  slept.  "  Mamma  !"  said  she,  "  I  am  so 
tired  to-night !  wouldn't  it  do  if  I  said,  '  Thank  you,  God !' " 
Still  more  interesting  were  those  words  of  the  little  boy,  who, 
though  nearly  overcome  with  weariness,  began  his  usual  prayer, 
but  closing  his  eyes,  and  nestling  his  beautiful  head  on  the 
pillow,  murmured  half  audibly,  "  He  knows  the  rest." 


CHILD-SLEEP. 

"DUT  a  child  that  bids  the  world  good-night 
In  sober  earnest,  and  cuts  it  quite. 

Is  a  cherub  no  art  can  copy; 
'Tis  a  perfect  picture  to  sec  him  lie. 
As  if  he  had  supped  on  dormouse  pie, 

With  a  sauce  of  the  syrup  of  poppy. 


T.  Hood. 


BABYHOOD.  181 


EMBLEMATICAL. 
n^IIE  morn  is  up  again ;   the  dewy  morn, 

Witli  lips  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom ; 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  as  if  in  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb. 

Byron. 


THE   BIKB-CATCHE^R. 

I  remember  well,  sitting  on  the  door-step  of  my  father's  house,  a  pinch 
of  salt  in  my  hand,  watching  with  patient  faith  the  blue  and  white  pigeons 
coming  so  near,  that  ever  and  anon  I  could  almost  touch  them! 

C\  ENTLY,  gently  yet,  young  stranger, 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  heel ! 
Ere  the  bird  perceives  its  danger, 

On  it  slyly  steal. 
Silence  ! — ah  !  your  scheme  is  failing — 

No;  pursue  your  pretty  prey; 
See,  your  shadow  on  the  paling 

Startles  it  away. 

Caution !  now  you're  nearer  creeping ; 

Neai'er  yet — how  still  it  seems ! 
Sure,  the  winged  creature's  sleeping. 

Wrapt  in  forest-dreams ! 
Golden  sights  that  bird  is  seeing. 

Nest  of  green,  or  mossy  bough; 
Not  a  thought  it  hath  of  fleeing; 

Yes,  you'll  catch  it  now. 

How  your  eyes  begin  to  twinkle ! 

Silence,  and  you'll  scarcely  fail. 
Now  stoop  down,  and  softly  sprinkle 

Salt  upon  its  tail. 


132  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Yes,  you  have  it  in  your  tether. 

Never  more  to  skim  the  skies; 
Lodge  the  salt  on  that  long  feather — 

Ha!  it  flies!  it  flies! 

Hear  it — hark !   among  the  bushes, 

Laughing  at  your  idle  lures ! 
Boy,  the  self-same  feeling  gushes 

Through  my  heart  and  yours. 
Baffled  sportsman,  childish  Mentor, 

How  have  I  been — hapless  fault ! — 
Led,  like  you,  my  hopes  to  centre 

On  a  grain  of  salt ! 

On  what  captures  I've  been  counting. 

Stooping  here,  and  creeping  there. 
All  to  see  my  bright  hope  mounting 

High  into  the  air ! 
Thus  have  children  of  all  ages. 

Seeing  bliss  before  them  fly, 
Found  their  hearts  but  empty  cages. 

And  their  hopes  on  high ! 


Laman   Blanchard. 


LITTLE   WILLIL   WAKING   UP. 

QOME  have  thought  that  in  the  dawning, 
^  In  our  being's  freshest  glow, 
God  is  nearer  little  children 

Than  their  parents  ever  know; 
And  that,  if  you  listen  sharply, 

Better  things  than  you  can  teach. 
And  a  sort  of  mystic  wisdom 

'I'ricklos  tlivniiLih   their  careless  speech. 


BABYHOOD.  133 

How  it  is  I  cannot  answer, 

But  I  knew  a  little  child, 
Who,  among  the  thyme  and  clover, 

And  the  bees  was  running  wild. 
And  he  came  one  summer  evening. 

With  his  ringlets  o'er  his  eyes, 
And  his  hat  was  torn  in  pieces 

Chasing  bees  and  butterflies. 

'Now  I'll  go  to  bed,  dear  mother, 

For  I'm  very  tired  of  play !" 
And  he  said  his,  "  Now  I  lay  me," 

In  a  kind  of  careless  way. 
And  he  drank  the  cooling  water, 

From  his  little  silver  cup. 
And  said,  gayly,  "  When  it's  mormni/, 

Will  the  Angels  take  me  up  ?" 

Down  he  sank  with  roguish  laughter 

In  his  little  trundle  bed, 
And  the  kindly  god  of  slumber 

Showered  the  poppies  o'er  his  head. 
"  What  could  mean  his  speaking  strangely '{" 

Asked  his  musing  mother  then — 
"  Oh  'twas  nothing  but  his  prattle ; 
What  can  he  of  Angels  ken?" 

There  he  lies,  how  sweet  and  placid, 
And  his  breathing  comes  and  goes 
Like  a  zephyr  moving  softly, 

And  his  cheek  is  like  a  rose; 
But  she  leaned  her  ear  to  listen 
If  his  breathing  could  be  heard : 
"  Oh,"  she  murmured,  "  if  the  Angels 
Took  my  darling  at  his  word !" 
12 


134  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Night  witliiii  its  folding  mantle 

Hath  the  sleepers  both  beguiled, 
And  within  its  soft  embracing 

Rest  the  mother  and  the  child; 
Up  she  starteth  from  her  dreaming, 

For  a  sound  hath  struck  her  ear — 
And  it  comes  from  little  Willie, 

Lyings' on  iijg  trundle  near. 

Up  she  springeth,  for  it  strikes  upon 

Her  troubled  ear  again, 
And  his  breath,  in  louder  fetches, 

Travels  from  his  lungs  in  pain. 
And  his  eyes  are  fixing  upward 

On  some  face  beyond  the  room ; 
And  the  blackness  of  the  spoiler. 

From  his  cheek  hath  chased  the  bloom. 

Never  more  his,  "  Now  I  lay  me," 
Shall  be  said  from  mother's  knee. 

Never  more  among  the  clover 
Will  he  chase  the  humble-bee. 

Through  the  night  she  watched  her  darling, 
Now  despairing,  now  in  hope ; 

And  about  the  break  of  morning- 
Did  the  Angels  take  him  up. 


E.   H.   Sears, 


CHRIST   AND   THE  LITXLE   ONES. 

"  ^HE  Master  has  come  over  Jordan," 
Said  Hannah,  the  mother,  one  day; 
"  He  is  healing  the  people  who  throng  him 
With  a  touch  of  liis  finger,  they  say. 


BABYHOOD.  1 '>5 

"  And  now  I  shall  carry  the  children — 
Little  Rachel,  and  Samuel,  and  John, 

"  I  shall  carry  the  baby,  Esther, 
For  the  Lord  to  look  upon." 

The  father  looked  at  her  kindly. 
But  he  shook  his  head  and  smiled : 
"  Now,  who  but  a  doting  mother 

Would  think  of  a  thing  so  wild? 

"  If  the  children  were  tortured  by  demons, 
Or  dying  of  fever,  'twere  well. 
Or  had  they  the  taint  of  the  leper. 
Like  many  in  Israel." 

"  Nay,  do  not  hinder  me,  Nathan — 
I  feel  such  a  burden  of  care; 
If  I  carry  it  to  the  Master, 
Perhaps  I  shall  leave  it  there. 

"  If  he  lay  his  hand  on  the  children, 
My  heart  will  be  lighter,  I  know, 
For  a  blessing  forever  and  ever 
Will  follow  them  as  they  go." 

So  over  the  hills  of  Judah, 

Along  by  the  vine-rows  green. 
With  Esther  asleep  on  her  bosom. 

And  Rachel  her  brothers  between, 

'Mong  the  people  who  hung  on  his  teaching, 

Or  waited  his  touch  and  his  word, 
Through  the  row  of  proud  Pharisees  listening. 

She  pressed  to  the  feet  of  the  Lord. 


136  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"  Now,  why  shouldst  tliou  hinder  the  Master," 
Said  Peter,  '•  with  children  like  these  ? 
Seest  not  how,  from  morning  till  evening, 

He  teacheth,  and  healeth  disease  ?" 

• 

Then  Christ  said,  "Forbid  not  the  children- - 
Permit  them  to  come  unto  me." 

And  he  took  in  his  arms  little  Esther, 
And  Rachel  he  set  on  his  knee; 

And  the  heavy  heart  of  the  mother 
Was  lifted  all  earth-care  above, 

As  he  laid  his  hands  on  the  brothers, 
And  blest  them  with  tenderest  love; 

As  he  said  of  the  babes  in  his  bosom, 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;" 
And  strength  for  all  duty  and  trial 
That  hour  to  her  spirit  was  given. 


Julia  Gill. 


"XT'OUTH  fades ;  love  droops  •  the  leaves  of  friendship  fall ; 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all ! 

O.   W.   Holmes. 


THE   nSKEKMEN. 

n^HREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  West — 
-^    Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  best. 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep; 
And  there's  little  to  earn  and  many  to  keep. 
Though  the  harbor  bar  bo  moaning. 


BABYHOOD.  137 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  towei* 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown ; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands. 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 

And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing  their  hands. 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 

And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

Charles   Kingsley. 


SOWING   IN   TKAKS. 

OTRAIGHT  and  still  the  baby  lies, 

No  more  smiling  in  his  eyes, 
Neither  tears  nor  wailing  cries. 

Smiles  and  tears  alike  are  done; 
He  has  need  of  neither  one — 
Only,  I  must  weep  alone. 

Tiny  fingers,  all  too  slight, 
Hold  within  their  grasping  tight, 
Waxen  berries  scarce  more  white. 

Nights  and  days  of  weary  pain, 
I  have  held  them  close — in  vain; 
Now  I  never  shall  again. 
12  » 


138  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Crossed  upon  a  silent  breast, 
By  no  suffering  distressed, 
Here  they  lie  in  marble  rest; 

They  shall  ne'er  unfolded  be, 
Never  more  in  agony 
Cling  so  pleadingly  to  me. 

Never !     Oh,  the  hopeless  sound 
To  my  heart  so  closely  wound 
All  his  little  being  round! 

I  forget  the  shining  crown. 

Glad  exchange  for  cross  laid  down, 

Now  his  baby  brows  upon. 

Yearning  sore,  I  only  know 
I  am  very  full  of  woe — 
And  I  want  my  baby  so! 

Selfish  heart,  that  thou  shouldst  prove 
So  unworthy  of  the  love 
Which  thine  idol  doth  remove ! 

Blinded  eyes,  that  cannot  see 

Past  the  present  misery, 

Joy  and  comfort  full  and  free ! 

0 !  my  Father,  loving  Lord ! 
I  am  ashamed  at  my  own  word; 
Strength  and  patience  me  afford. 

I  will  yield  me  to  thy  will; 
Now  thy  purposes  fulfil ; 
Only  help  mc  to  be  still. 


BABYHOOD.  189 

TlioiTgli  my  mother-heart  shall  ache, 
I  believe  that,  for  thy  sake, 
It  shall  not  entirely  break. 

And  I  know  I  yet  shall  own. 
For  my  seeds  of  sorrow  sown, 
Sheaves  of  joy  around  thy  throne ! 


GOOD  LirK,  LONG  LirE. 

TN  small  proportion  we  just  beauties  see, 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

Ben  Jonson. 


LITTLE   CHILD]REN. 

OPORTINa  through  the  forest  wide, 

Playing  by  the  water  side, 
Wandering  o'er  the  heather  fells, 
Down  within  the  woodland  dells. 
All  among  the  mountains  wild, 
Dwelleth  many  a  little  child. 

In  the  rich  man's  house  so  wide, 
By  the  poor  man's  snug  fireside, 
'Mid  the  mighty,  'mid  the  mean. 
Little  children  may  be  seen; 
Like  the  flowers  which  spring  up  fair, 
Bright  and  countless  everywhere ! 

In  the  fair  isles  of  the  main. 
In  the  desert's  lone  domain. 


140  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  savage  mountain  glen, 
'Mong  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men, 
Wheresoe'er  a  foot  hath  gone, 
Wheresoe'er  the  sun  hath  shone 
On  a  league  of  peopled  ground. 
Little  children  may  be  found ! 

Blessings  on  them !   they,  in  me. 
Move  a  kindly  sympathy. 
With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears, 
With  their  wonders,  so  intense, 
And  their  small  experience. 

Little  children  not  alone 
On  the  spacious  earth  are  known, 
'Mid  its  labors  and  its  cares, 
'Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares  j 

Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 
In  the  world  of  love  and  life, 
Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod — 
In  the  presence  of  our  God, 
Spotless,  blameless,  glorified, 
Little  children  there  abide ! 


Mary   Howitt, 


WHAT   THE   CHMST-SPIKIT   SAID   TO   CHILDKEN. 

T  ITTLE  children,  love  each  other, 
-^  Never  give  another  pain; 
If  your  brother  speak  in  anger, 
Answer  not  in  wrath  again. 


BABYHOOD. 


141 


Be  not  selfisli  to  each  other, 
Never  mar  another's  rest, 

Strive  to  make  each  other  happy, 
And  you  will  yourselves  be  blest. 


THE   HALLOWED   B^RAWEK. 

ly/TRS.  BIRD  slowly  opened  the  drawer.  There  were  little 
^■^  coats  of  many  a  form  and  pattern,  piles  of  aprons,  and 
rows  of  small  stockings ;  and  even  a  pair  of  little  shoes,  worn 
and  rubbed  at  the  toes,  were  peeping  from  the  folds  of  a  paper. 
There  was  a  toy,  horse  and  wagon,  a  top,  a  ball — memorials 
gathered  with  many  a  tear,  and  many  a  heart-break  !  She  sat 
down  by  the  drawer,  and  leaning  her  head  on  her  hands  over 
it,  wept  till  the  tears  fell  through  her  fingers  into  the  drawer. 
And  oh,  mother  that  reads  this,  has  there  never  been  in  your 
house  a  drawer,  or  a  closet,  the  opening  of  which  has  been  to 
you  like  the  opening  again  of  a  little  grave  ? 

Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe. 


A   PICTUKE. 

(\3.  what  a  loveliness  her  eyes 

^  Gather  in  that  one  moment's  space. 

While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spies 

Her  darling's  laughing  face ! 
Oh  Mother's  love  is  glorifying. 
On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying. 

Thomas   Burbidge. 


We  can  have  many  wives,  but  only  one  mother. 

Turkish   Saying. 


142  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


CKILDKEN. 

riHILDREN  are  what  tlie  motliers  are, 

No  fondest  father's  fondest  care 
Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heart, 
As  tliose  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears  upon 
The  cradle  of  a  sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 
A  father  near  him  on  his  knee, 
Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 
The  mother  in  his  future  face ; 
But  'tis  to  her  alone  uprise 
His  wakening  arms;  to  her  those  eyes, 
Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 


W.  S.   Landor. 


■\T7H0  should  it  be  ?   Where  shouldst  thou  look  for  kindness  ? 

When  we  are  sick,  where  can  we  turn  for  succour  ? 
When  we  are  wretched  where  can  we  complain  ? 
And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  surly  on  us, 
Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye 
With  such  sure  confidence  as  to  a  mother's? 

Joanna   Baillie. 


"  A  KISS  from  my  mother  made  me  a  painter." 

Benjamin   West. 


"  TF  the  whole  world  were  put  into  one  scale,  and  my  mother 
-*-  into  the  other,  the  world  would  kick  the  beam." 

Lord   Langdale. 


BABYHOOD.  14ij 


TO   A   CHILD    EMBRACING   HIS   MOTHER. 

T  OVE  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a  son 

Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain; 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 


Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 

And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee — 
Hereafter  thou  mayst  shudder  sighs 

To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see, 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes ! 

Press  her  lips  awhile  they  glow 

With  love  that  they  have  often  told — 

Hereafter  thou  mayst  press  in  woe, 

And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Although  it  be  not  silver-gray — 
Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 

May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away, 
0 !  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn. 

That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer — 
For  thou  mayst  live  the  hour  forlorn 

When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her, 
Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


144  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


MOTKEK'S   LOVE. 

EWS  were  wrought  to  cruel  madness, 
Christians  fled  in  fear  and  sadness, 
Mary  stood  the  cross  beside. 

At  its  foot  her  foot  she  phmted, 
By  the  dreadful  scene  undaunted, 
Till  the  gentle  sufferer  died. 

Poets  oft  have  sung  her  story; 
Painters  decked  her  brow  with  glory; 
Priests  her  name  have  deified; 

But  no  worship,  song,  or  glory, 
Touches  like  that  simple  story — 
"  Mary  stood  the  cross  beside." 

And  when  under  fierce  oppression 

Goodness  suffers  like  transgression, 

Christ  again  is  crucified. 

But  if  love  be  there,  true-hearted, 
By  no  grief  or  terror  parted, 

Mary  stands  the  cross  beside. 


W.  J.  Fox. 


MY   SEKMON. 

T  HAVE  been  sitting  here  for  an  hour,  noting  down  some 
-*-  thoughts  for  the  sermon  which  I  hope  to  write  during  this 
•week,  and  to  preach  next  Sunday.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
think  very  connectedly,  indeed ;  for  two  little  feet  have  been 
patteving  round  in(\  two  little  hands  ])n]ling  at  me  occasionally, 


LAB  Y HOOD.  145 

and  a  little  voice  entreating  that  I  should  come  and  have  a 
race  upon  the  green.  Of  course  I  went ;  for  like  most  men 
who  are  not  very  great  or  very  bad,  I  have  learned,  for  the 
sake  of  the  little  owner  of  the  hands  and  the  voice,  to  love 
every  little  child.  My  sermon  will  be  the  better  for  these 
interruptions.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  it  will  be  absolutely  good, 
though  it  will  be  as  good  as  I  can  make  it ;  but  it  will  be 
better  for  these  races  with  my  little  girl. 

Boyd. 


IN   MEMOKIAM. 


A  NOTHER  little  form  asleep, 
And  a  little  spirit  gone ; 
Another  little  voice  is  hushed, 

And  a  little  angel  born. 
Two  little  feet  are  on  the  way 

To  the  home  beyond  the  skies. 
And  our  hearts  are  like  the  void  that  comes 
When  a  strain  of  music  dies ! 

II. 

A  pair  of  little  baby  shoes. 

And  a  lock  of  golden  hair; 
The  toys  our  little  darling  loved, 

And  the  dress  she  used  to  wear; 
The  little  grave  in  the  shady  nook. 

Where  the  flowers  love  to  grow; 
And  these  are  all  of  the  little  hope 

That  came  three  years  ago ! 
13  G 


1-iG  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

III. 

The  birds  will  sit  on  the  branch  above, 

And  sing  a  requiem 
To  the  beautiful  little  sleeping  form 

That  used  to  sing  to  them; 
But  never  again  -will  the  little  lips 

To  their  songs  of  love  reply, 
For  that  silvery  voice  is  blended  with 

The  minstrelsy  on  high  ! 


Knickerbocker. 


A   SUNBEAM   AND    A   SHADOW. 
T  HEAR  a  shout  of  merriment,  a  laughing  boy  I  see ; 

Two  little  feet  the  carpet  press,  and  bring  the  child  to  me; 
Two  little  arms  are  round  my  neck,  two  feet  upon  my  knee ; 
How  fall  the  kisses  on  my  cheek  !  how  sweet  they  are  to  me  I 

That  merry  shout  no  more  I  hear,  no  laughing  child  I  see ; 
No  little  arms  are  round  my  neck,  nor  feet  upon  my  knee ! 
No  kisses  drop  upon  my  cheek ;  those  lips  are  sealed  to  me. 
Dear  Lord !  how  could  I  give  him  up  to  any  but  to  thee ! 

Monthly   Religious  Magazine. 


A   MOTHER'S   JOYS. 

T'VE  gear  enough,  I've  gear  enough, 

I've  bonuie  bairnies  three; 
Their  welfare  is  a  mine  of  wealth, 

Their  love  a  crown  to  me. 
The  joys,  the  dear  deliglits  they  bring. 

I'm  sure  I'd  not  agree 
To  change  for  every  worldly  good 

That  could  be  mvcn  to  me. 


nABYlWOD.  147 

Let  others  flaunt  in  fashion's  ring, 

Seek  rank  and  high  degree ; 
I  wish  them  joy  with  all  my  heart, 

They're  envied  not  by  me. 
I  would  not  give  those  loving  looks, 

The  heaven  of  those  smiles, 
To  bear  the  proudest  name — to  be 

The  Queen  of  Britain's  isles. 

My  sons  are  like  their  father  dear, 

And  all  the  neighbors  tell 
That  my  young  blue-eyed  daughter's  just 

The  picture  of  mysel'. 
Oh,  blessings  on  my  darlings  all ! 

They're  dear  as  summer's  shine. 
My  heart  runs  o'er  with  happiness 

To  think  that  they  are  mine. 

At  evening,  morning,  every  hour 

I've  an  unchanging  prayer. 
That  Heaven  would  my  bairnies  bless, 

My  hope,  my  joy,  my  care. 
I've  gear  enough,  I've  gear  enough, 

I've  bonnie  bairnies  three; 
Their  welfare  is  a  mine  of  wealth. 

Their  love  a  crown  to  me. 

William   Ferguson. 


TH£   CHILDREN. 

A  H !   what  would  the  world  be  to  us 
If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 
Worse  than  the  dark  before. 


148  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  Ught  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  heeu  hardened  into  wood — 

That  to  the  workl  are  children ; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  hrighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  helow. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


The  fate  of  the  child  is  always  the  work  of  his  mother. 

Napoleon. 


ANTIPODES. 

17  V A  stood  looking  at  Topsy.  There  stood  the  two  children, 
representatives  of  the  two  extremes  of  society.  The  fair, 
high-hred  child,  with  her  golden  head,  her  deep  eyes,  her 
spiritual,  nohle  brow,  and  prince-like  movements;  and  her 
black,  keen,  subtle,  cringing,  yet  acute  neighbor.  They  stood 
the  representatives  of  their  races.  The  Saxon,  born  of  ages 
of  cultivation,  command,  education,  physical  and  moral  emi- 
nence; the  Afric,  born  of  ages  of  oppression,  submission, 
ignorance,  toil,  and  vice  ! 

H.   B.  Stowe. 


BABYHOOD.  149 


THE   DEAD    BOY. 

TTE  crossed  the  sill;  she  pointed  to  the  bed; 

There  lay  her  boy,  his  innocent  curly  head, 
Nestled  upon  the  pillow,  and  his  face 
Lit  with  the  solemn  and  unearthly  grace 
That  crowns  but  once  the  children  of  our  race ; 

God  gives  it  when  he  takes  them — he  was  dead ! 
A  broken  toy,  a  bunch  of  withered  flowers, 

In  his  thin  hands  were  clasped,  his  breast  above. 
The  last  frail  ties  that  to  this  world  of  ours 

Had  linked  the  sufferer — save  a  mother's  love. 

William   Allen   Butler. 


THE   PKATTLE   OF   CHILDREN. 

"VrO  man  knows,  but  he  that  loves  his  children,  how  many 
delicious  accents  make  a  man's  heart  dance  in  the  pretty 
conversation  of  these  dear  pledges ;  their  childishness,  their 
stammering,  their  little  angers,  their  innocences,  their  imper- 
fections, their  necessities,  are  so  many  little  emanations  of  joy 
and  comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their  persons  and  society. 

Jeremy  Taylor — Sermon   xviii. 


^TTHEEE  like  we  to  see  presumption  shown? 
'     In  children :  for  the  world's  their  own  ! 


13 


150  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

AH,  blessed  indeed  are  little  children  !  Mortals  do  not  un- 
dcrstand  half  they  owe  them ;  for  the  good  they  do  us  is  a 
spiritual  gift,  and  few  perceive  how  it  intertwines  the  mystery 
of  life.  They  form  a  ladder  of  garlands  on  which  the  angels 
descend  to  our  souls ;  and  without  them,  such  communications 
would  be  utterly  lost. 

L.  M.  Child. 


TN  this  dim  world  of  clouding  cares 
We  rarely  know  till  wildered  eyes 
See  white  wings  lessening  up  the  skies 

The  angels  with  us  unawares ! 

Gerald   Massey. 


ILLUSIONS. 

"TTTHEN  the  boys  come  into  my  yard  for  leave  to  gather 
horse-chestnuts,  I  own  I  enter  into  Nature's  game,  and 
affect  to  grant  the  permission  reluctantly,  fearing  that  any 
moment  they  will  find  out  the  imposture  of  that  showy  chaff. 
But  this  tenderness  is  quite  unnecessary ;  the  enchantments 
are  laid  on  very  thick.  Their  young  life  is  thatched  with 
them.  Bare  and  grim  to  tears  is  the  lot  of  the  children  in  the 
hovel  I  saw  yesterday ;  yet  not  the  less  they  hang  it  round 
with  frippery  romance,  like  the  children  of  the  happiest 
fortune. 


A 


TORN  jacket  is  soon  mended ;  but  hard  words  bruise  the 
heart  of  a  child. 

Longfellow 


BABYHOOD.  151 


THE   CONTRAST. 

TN  tlie  parlor,  singing-,  playing, 

Round  me  like  a  sunbeam  straying, 
All  her  life  with  joy  o'erladen, 
Is  a  radiant  little  maiden. 
Constant  love,  her  cares  beguiling. 
Shields  her  from  sin's  dread  defiling  j 
Sheltered  safe  from  worldly  rudeness, 
Grows  she  in  her  native  goodness. 
Every  morn  brings  fond  caressing, 
Every  night  brings  earnest  blessing  j 
So  her  heart  gets  sweeter,  purer, 
And  her  steps  in  virtue  surer. 

In  the  street,  where  storms  are  sighing. 
Is  a  child  deserted,  crying; 
Poor  lost  lamb !  with  plaintive  bleating 
All  my  sympathy  entreating. 
No  home's  holy  loves  enfold  her, 
No  protecting  arms  uphold  her; 
And  the  voices  that  should  guide  her 
Utter  only  tones  that  chide  her. 
O'er  her  spirit's  waste  and  blindness 
Falls  no  ray  of  saving  kindness; 
Wandering  thus  in  earth's  dark  places, 
Sin  her  tender  soul  embraces. 

Then  I  know  that  radiant  maiden 
All  whose  life  with  love  is  laden, 
Only  love  saves  from  the  danger 
And  the  fate  of  this  lost  stranger ! 


152  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


THE  MOTHER,  EVEN  IN  DEATH. 

rpHE  end  was  drawing  ou;  the  golden  bowl  was  breaking; 
the  silver  cord  was  fast  being  loosed — that  animula  blan- 
dula,  vagula,  hospes,  comesque,  was  about  to  flee.  The  body 
and  soul,  companions  for  sixty  years,  were  being  sundered,  and 
taking  leave.  She  was  walking  alone  through  the  valley  of 
that  shadow  into  which  one  day  we  must  all  enter ;  and  yet 
she  was  not  alone,  for  we  all  know  whose  rod  and  stafi"  were 
comforting  her.  One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and  as  we 
hoped,  asleep;  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put  down  the  gas,  and 
sat  watching  her.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  taking  a 
bed-gown  which  was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she  held  it  eagerly 
to  her  breast,  to  the  right  side.  We  could  see  her  eyes,  bright 
with  surprising  tenderness  and  joy,  bending  over  this  bundle 
of  clothes.  She  held  it  as  a  woman  holds  her  sucking  child ; 
opening  out  her  night-gown  impatiently,  and  holding  it  close, 
and  brooding  over  it,  and  murmuring  foolish  little  words,  as 
over  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is 
satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange  to  see  her  wasted,  dying 
look,  keen  and  yet  vague ;  her  immense  love :  and  then  she 
rocked  back  and  forward,  as  if  to  make  it  sleep,  hushing  it, 
and  wasting  on  it  her  infinite  fondness.  "  Preserve  me !" 
groaned  her  husband,  giving  way.  "Wae's  me,  doctor;  I 
declare  she's  thinking  it's  that  bairn."  "  What  bairn  ?"  "  The 
only  bairn  we  ever  had;  our  wee  Mysie,  and  she's  in  the 
Kingdom  forty  years  and  mair."  It  was  plainly  true;  the 
pain  in  the  breast  telling  its  urgent  story  to  a  bewildered, 
ruined  brain,  was  misread  and  mistaken ;  it  suggested  to  her 
the  uneasiness  of  a  breast  full  of  milk,  and  then  the .  child ; 
and  so  again  once  more  they  were  together,  and  she  had  her 
ain  wee  Mysie  on  her  bosom.  This  was  the  close — she  sank 
rapidly ;  the  delirium  left  her.     After  having  for  some  time 


BABYHOOD.  153 

laia  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said,  "  James."  He  came  close  to 
her,  and  lifting  up  her  calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave 
him  a  long  look,  turned  to  me  kindly  but  shortly,  then  to  her 
husband  again,  as  if  she  would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut 
her  eyes,  composed  herself,  and  passed  gently  away. 

John    Brown. 


THE   CHILDiaEN'S   HOUR. 

"DETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet; 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamp-light, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes, 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded. 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 


154  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me — 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere ! 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse  Tower  on  the  Khine ! 

Do  you  think,  oh !  blue-eyed  banditti. 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 
And  will  not  let  you  depart, 

But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeons 
In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart ! 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever. 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day. 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away ! 


H.  W.  Longfellow. 


nPAKE  heed  ye  offend  not  one  of  these  little  ones;  for  I  say 
-^  unto  you,  their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my 
Father. 


BABYHOOD.  •  lo5 


MOTHER'S  TRUST. 

"  'U'OU  don't  believe  I  did  what  they  accuse  me  of,  mother 
•^  dear  ?"  cried  Kit  in  a  choking  voice.  "  I  believe  it !" 
exclaimed  the  poor  woman.  '•  I,  that  never  knew  you  tell  a 
lie,  or  do  a  bad  action  from  your  cradle;  that  have  never  had 
a  moment's  sorrow  on  your  account.  I  believe  it  of  the  son 
that's  been  a  comfort  to  me  from  the  hour  of  his  birth  to  this 
time,  and  that  I  never  laid  down  one  night  in  anger  with  !  I 
believe  it  of  you,  Kit !"  "  Why  then,  thank  God  !"  said  Kit, 
clutching  the  bars  with  an  earnestness  that  shook  them,  "  and 
I  can  bear  it,  mother.  Come  what  may,  I  shall  always  have 
one  drop  of  happiness  in  my  heart  when  I  think  that  you  said 
that."  At  this,  the  poor  woman  fell  a  crying  again.  As  to 
the  baby,  it  was  crowing  and  laughing  with  all  its  might,  under 
the  idea,  apparently,  that  the  whole  scene  had  been  invented 
and  got  up  for  its  particular  satisfaction  ! 

Charles  Dickens. 


MOTHER'S  TENDERNESS. 

A  f  THERE  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
•  mother  to  her  son,  which  transcends  all  other  aflfections 
of  the  heart.  It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor 
daunted  by  danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessuess,  nor  stifled 
by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  conve- 
nience;  she  will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment; 
she  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exu.lt  in  his  prosperity;  and,  if 
misfortune  overtake  him,  he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  for  mis- 
fortune ;  and  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still 
love  and  cherish  him  in  spite  of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the 
world  beside  cast  him  oif,  she  will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Washington    Irving, 


156  '  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


I   LIVE   rOK   TKEE." 

TTOME  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 
"  She  must  weep,  or  she  will  die." 
Then  they  praised  him  soft  and  low, 

Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 
Truest  friend,  and  noblest  foe; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 
Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 
Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee, 
Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears, 
"  Sweet,  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 

Alfred  Tennyson 


THE   SEA. 

nnHROUGrH  the  night,  through  the  night, 
-^    In  the  saddest  unrest. 
Wrapt  in  white,  all  in  white, 

With  her  babe  on  her  breast, 
Walks  the  mother  so  pale, 
Staring  out  on  the  gale 

Throuuh  the  iiitiht  1 


BABYHOOD.  157 

Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 

Where  the  sea  lifts  the  wreck, 
Land  in  sight,  close  in  sight. 

On  the  surf-flooded  deck 
Stands  the  father  so  brave. 
Driving  on  to  his  grave 

Through  the  night ! 

R.   H.  Stoddard. 


"  T^FFENDI,"  said  the  poor  old  creature,  her  voice  trembling, 
and  the  tears  streaming  from  her  eyes,  "  My  children 
are  all  dead !     There  is  no  one  now  between  me  and  Allah  !" 

Pencillings  by  the  Way. 


QHE  is  the  barren  woman  whose  son  is  not  remembered  in 
the  assemblies  of  the  good  and  just. 

Hindoo  Saying. 


0 


LITTLE   CKAKLIE. 

LITTLE  presence !  everywhere 
We  find  some  touching  trace  of  thee — 
A  pencil  mai'k  upon  the  wall 

That  "naughty  hands"  made  thoughtlessly; 
And  broken  toys  around  the  house. 

Where  he  has  left  them  they  have  lain. 
Waiting  for  little  busy  hands 
That  will  not  come  again — 
Will  never  come  again  ! 
14 


158  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Within  the  shrouded  room  below 
He  lies  a-cold — and  yet  we  know 

It  is  not  Charlie  there ! 
It  is  not  Charlie,  cold  and  white, 
It  is  the  robe,  that  in  his  flight, 

He  gently  cast  aside ! 

Our  darlino-  hath  not  died ! 


T.   B.  Aldrich. 


A    CHILD  is  a  man  in  a  small  letter;  the  older  he  grows,  he 
■^  is  a  stair  lower  from  Grod ;  and,  like  his  first  Father,  much 
worse  in  his  breeches. 

John   Earle,  1601 — 1665.     Tutor  to   Prince  Charles. 


KITTIE   IS   GONE. 

TT'ITTIE  is  gone.  Where?  To  heaven.  An  angel  came, 
and  took  her  away.  She  was  a  lovely  child,  gentle  as  a 
lamb ;  the  pet  of  the  whole  family ;  the  youngest  of  them  all. 
But  she  oould  not  stay  with  us  any  longer.  *  *  *  *  Jf  a 
little  voice  sweeter  and  more  musical  than  others  were  heard, 
I  knew  Kittle  was  near.  If  my  study  door  opened  so  gently 
and  slily  that  no  sound  could  be  heard,  I  knew  Kittie  was 
coming.  If  after  an  hour's  quiet  play,  a  little  shadow  passed 
me,  and  the  door  opened  and  shut  as  no  one  else  could  open 
and  shut  it,  "so  as  not  to  disturb  papa,"  I  knew  Kittie  was 
going.  When,  in  the  midst  of  my  composing,  I  heard  a  gentle 
voice  saying,  "  Papa,  may  I  stay  with  you  a  little  while  ?  I 
will  be  very  still ;"  I  did  not  need  to  look  ofi"  my  work  to  assure 
me  that  it  was  my  little  lamb.  You  staid  with  me  too  long, 
Kittie  dear,  to  leave  me  so  suddenly,  and  you  arc  too  still  now. 


BABYHOOD.  159 

You  became  my  little  assistant,  my  home  angel,  my  youngest 
and  sweetest  singing  bird,  and  I  miss  the  little  voice  that  I 
have  heard  in  an  adjoining  room,  catching  up  and  echoing 
little  snatches  of  melody  as  they  were  being  composed.  I 
miss  those  soft  and  sweet  kisses.  I  miss  the  little  hand  that 
was  always  first  to  be  placed  on  my  forehead  to  "  drive  away 
the  pain."  I  miss  the  sound  of  those  little  feet  upon  the 
stairs.  *  *  *  *  I  miss  you  in  the  garden.  I  miss  you 
everywhere,  but  I  will  try  not  to  miss  you  in  heaven.  "  Papa, 
if  we  are  good,  will  an  angel  truly  come  and  take  us  to  heaven 
when  we  die  ?"  When  the  question  was  asked,  how  little  did 
I  think  the  angel  was  so  near !  But  he  did  truly  come,  and 
the  sweet  flower  was  translated  to  a  more  genial  clime.  "  I  lo 
wish  papa  would  come."  Wait  a  little  while,  Kittie,  and  papa 
will  come.     The  journey  is  not  long.     He  will  soon  be  Home. 

William   B.  Bradbury. 


HOW'S   MY   BOY? 

"  TTO  !   sailor  of  the  sea  ! 

^^  How's  my  boy — my  boy?" 
"What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 
And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he?" 

"My  boy  John — 

He  that  went  to  sea; 
What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 
My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

"You  come  back  from  sea. 
And  not  know  my  John  ? 
I  might  as  well  have  asked  some  landsmai 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 
But  knows  my  John. 


160  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know, 
I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no, 
Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no — 
Sure  bis  sbip  was  the  '  Jolly  Briton.' " 

"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low !" 

"And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud, 
I'd  sing  him  over  the  town ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?" 
"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor; 
I  was  never  aboard  her. 
Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground. 
Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound 

Her  owners  can  aftbrd  her ! 
I  say,  how's  my  John  ?" 
"Every  man  on  board  went  down. 
Every  man  aboard  her." 

"How's  my  boy — my  boy? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor? 
I'm  not  their  mother. 

How's  my  boy — my  boy? 
Tell  me  of  liim,  and  no  other ! 

How's  my  boy — my  boy?" 


Sydney   Dobel 


BABYHOOD.  1(31 

'pHE  boy  carried  in  liis  face  tlie  "  open  sesame"  to  every 
door  and  heart. 


THE   BAKErOOT   BOY. 

■OLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 

Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lips,  redder  still, 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face. 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace ; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 
Prince  thou  art — the  grown  up  man 
Only  is  republican ; 
Let  the  million-dollared  ride ! 
Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 
Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy, 
In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye; 
Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy  : 
Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy ! 

0,  for  boyhood's  painless  play. 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools. 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
14  « 


162  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  groundnut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood  grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks. 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy. 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

0,  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw. 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played. 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall. 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rinimed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 


BABYHOOD.  1G3 

Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides ! 
Still,  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  mj  riches  too; 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy ! 

0,  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread, 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone  gray  and  rude; 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent. 
Cloudy-ribbed  the  sunset  bent. 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frog's  orchestra; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir. 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch ;  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man. 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat; 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Loose  the  freedom  of  the  sod. 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod. 


1G4  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil; 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy ! 


J.   G.   Whittier. 


KAKKY'S   LETTER. 

Dear  Bill  : 
TTERE  I  am  in  Lincolnshire.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
want.  I  want  you  to  come  down  here  for  the  holidays. 
Don't  be  afraid.  Ask  your  sister  to  ask  your  mother  to  ask 
your  flxther  to  let  you  come.  It's  only  ninety  miles.  If  you're 
out  of  pocket-money,  you  can  walk,  and  beg  a  lift  now  and 
then,  or  swing  by  the  dickeys.  Put  on  corduroys,  and  don't 
care  for  cut  behind.  The  two  prentices,  George  and  Nick,  are 
here  to  be  made  farmers  of,  and  brother  Frank  is  took  home 
from  school  to  help  in  agriculture.  We  like  farming  very 
much ;  it's  capital  fun.  Us  four  have  got  a  gun,  and  go  out 
shooting;  it's  a  famous  good  one,  and  sure  to  go  oflf  if  you 
don't  full  cock  it.  Tiger  is  to  be  our  shooting  dog  as  soon  as 
he  has  left  off'  killing  the  sheep.  He's  a  real  savage,  and 
worries  cats  beautiful.  Before  father  comes  down,  we  mean 
to  bait  our  bull  with  him. 

There's  plenty  of  new  rivers  about,  and  we're  going  a  fish- 
ing as  soon  as  we  have  mended  our  top  joint.  "We've  killed 
one  of  our  sheep  on  the  sly  to  get  gentles.  We've  a  pony, 
too,  to  ride  upon  when  we  can  catch  him,  but  he's  loose  in  the 
paddock,  and  has  neither  niaiio  nor  tail  to  signify  to  lay  hold 


BABYJIOOJ).  165 

of.  Isn't  it  prime.  Bill  ?  You  miiat  come.  If  your  mother 
■won't  give  your  father  leave  to  allow  you,  run  away.  There's 
a  pond  full  of  frogs,  but  we  won't  pelt  them  till  you  come ;  but 
let  it  be  before  Sunday,  as  there's  our  own  orchard  to  rob,  and 
the  fruits  to  be  gathered  on  Monday.  If  you  like  sucking 
raw  eggs,  we  know  where  the  hens  lay,  and  mother  don't ;  and 
I'm  bound  there's  lots  of  birds'  nests.  Do  come.  Bill,  and 
I'll  show  you  the  wasp's  nest,  and  everything  to  make  you 
comfortable.  I  dare  say  you  could  borrow  your  father's 
volunteer  musket  of  him  without  his  knowing  it;  but  be  sure 
any  how  to  bring  the  ramrod,  as  we've  mislaid  ours  by  firing- 
it  off.  Don't  forget  some  bird-lime,  Bill,  and  some  fish-hooks, 
and  some  difierent  sorts  of  shot,  and  some  gunpowder,  and  a 
gentle-box,  and  some  flints,  some  May-flies,  and  a  powder-horn, 
and  a  landing-net,  and  a  dog-whistle,  and  some  porcupine- 
quills,  and  a  bullet-mould,  and  a  trolling-winch,  and  a  shot- 
belt,  and  a  tin-can.  You  pay  for  ^em.  Bill,  and  I'll  owe  it 
you. 

Your  old  friend  and  school-fellow, 
Harry. 

Thomas  Hood. 


A   QUESTION. 
TT7HEN  yet  was  ever  found  a  mother 


VV 

Who'd  give  her  booby  for  another? 


John  Gay. 


THE   BOY'S   APPEAL. 
AH,  why  must  my  face  be  washed  so  clean. 

And  rubbed  and  scrubbed  for  Sunday? 
When  you  very  well  know,  as  you  often  have  seen, 
'Twill  be  dirty  again  on  Monday. 


166  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

You  rub  as  hard  as  ever  you  can, 

And  your  hands  are  rough,  to  my  sorrow; 

No  woman  shall  wash  me  when  I'm  a  man; 
And  I  wish  I  was  one  to-morrow ! 


THE   rATHEK'S   ADVICE 

To  his  Son  going  to  Seek   his   Fortune. 


N 


OW,  my  boy,  remember  three  things:  '-Fear  God;  be  kind 
to  your  horse ;  and  keep  your  bowels  open." 


Hildreth. 


AGAINST   BOYS. 

/CERTAIN  feeble  poetasters  are  always  mourning  that  they 
are  no  longer  in  the  Classical  or  Commercial  Seminary  of 
their  younger  days,  but  I  believe  that  there  are  few  honest 
men  who  do  not  look  back  upon  their  school-days  with  a 
shudder.  I  was  not  a  very  bad  boy  myself,  I  believe,  but  the 
comparison  of  my  Now  with  my  Then  is  certainly  not  odious. 
I  can  now  meet  a  cat  without  wishing  to  kill  it ;  I  can  behold 
two  dogs  without  yearning  to  set  them  by  the  ears;  I  can  listen 
to  the  twitter  of  a  hedge-sparrow  without  longing  for  a  horse- 
pistol;  I  can  pass  in  the  street  an  individual  smaller  than 
myself  without  experiencing  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  snatch 
off  his  cap,  and  throw  it  over  the  wall.  When  I  go  to  church, 
I  take  a  church-service  in  my  hand,  and  not  a  novel  of  similar 
external  appearance ;  I  do  not  distend  my  pockets  with  filberts 
purloined  irom  my  host's  dinner-table ;  I  do  not  smoke  bits  of 
cane  until  I  am  sick ;  I  do  not  think  it  ungentlemanly  to  ride 
in  a  'bus;  T  am  no  lunger  irresistibly  attracted  to  any  barrow 


BABY  noon.  167 

full  of  strange  delicacies,  sucli  as  Albert  rock  or  Alicam-pane, 
and  if  I  were,  the  fruit  of  all  others  I  should  leave  untouched 
would  be  exposed  slices  of  cocoa-nut.  Upon  the  whole,  in 
short,  I  flatter  myself  that  my  relations  with  society  are 
improved  since  I  was  that  dreadful  being — a  boy.  If  all  the 
grown-up  people  in  the  world  should  suddenly  fail,  what  a 
frightful  thing  would  society  become  reconstructed  by  boys ! 

Chambers'   Journal. 


WHICH   IS   THE   HAPPIEST. 

"^TTHICH  is  the  happiest ;  a  king,  a  lover  repairing  to  his 
first  interview,  a  successful  author,  an  actor  who  has 
heard  his  rival  hissed,  an  old  coquette  who  has  just  received  a 
compliment,  a  servant  who  is  alone  in  a  house,  or  a  school-hoi/ 
coinmcncing  Ms  holidays  ? 

Paul  de   Kock. 


Extract  from  a  Letter  to  Philip  Sydney,  at  ten  years  of  age,  from  his  Father. 

T)E  curteese  of  gesture,  and  affable  to  all  men,  with  diversity 
of  reverence,  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  person. 
There  is  nothing  which  wynneth  so  much  with  so  lytell  cost. 
Use  moderate  dyet,  so  as  after  yowr  meate,  you  may  find  yowr 
wytte  fresher,  and  not  duller,  and  yowr  bodie  more  lyvely,  and 
not  more  hea\'ye.  Delight  to  be  cleanly,  as  well  in  all  parts 
of  yowr  bodie,  as  in  yowr  garments.  Grive  yowrselfe  to  be 
merrye,  but  let  yowr  myrthe  be  ever  void  of  all  scurrility,  and 
biting  woordes  to  any  man,  for  an  wounde  given  by  a  woorde 
is  oftentimes  harder  to  be  cured,  than  that  which  is  given  by 
the  sword.     Above  all   things,  tell   no  untruthe,  no,  not  in 


168  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

trifels.  Be  virtuously  occupied,  so  shall  you  make  such  an 
habits  of  well  doing,  that  you  shall  not  know  how  to  do  evell. 
Well,  my  lytell  Phillipe,  this  is  ynough  for  me,  and  too  muche, 
I  fear,  for  you. 

H.   Sydney. 


"\T7E  should  gain  our  object  better  in  the  discipline  of  chil- 
dren, if,  instead  of  finding  fault  with  an  action,  we  set 
ourselves  to  produce  a  better  state  of  feeling,  without  noticing 
the  action. 

Mary    P.    Ware. 


THE   BOY   AT    riFTEEN. 

ANE  of  the  most  common  signs  of  this  period,  in  some 
^  natures,  is  the  love  of  contradiction  and  opposition — a 
blind  desire  to  go  contrary  to  everything  that  is  commonly 
received  among  older  people.  The  boy  disparages  the  minister, 
quizzes  the  deacon,  thinks  the  school-master  an  ass,  and  seems 
to  be  rather  pleased,  than  otherwise,  with  the  shock  and  flutter 
that  all  these  announcements  create  among  peaceably  disposed 
grown  people.  Is  he  a  boy ;  an  immortal  soul  ?  a  reasonable 
human  being  ?  or  a  goblin  sent  to  torment  ?  "  What  shall  we 
do  with  him  ?"  says  his  mother.  "  He  can't  be  governed  like 
a  child,  and  he  won't  govern  himself  like  a  man."  "  We  must 
cast  out  anchor  and  wait  for  day,"  says  his  father.  "  Prayer 
is  a  long  rope  with  a  strong  hold." 

H.  B.  Stowe. 


T?01l  what  we  learn  in  youth,  to  that  alone 
In  age  we  are  by  second  nature  prone. 


BABYHOOD.  169 

n^HERE  is  good  metal  in  the  boy;  the  best  ore  cannot  look 
like  gold  till  it  is  fused.  It  is  so  difficult  for  us  women, 
who  have  to  watch  from  our  quiet  homes  afar,  to  distinguish 
the  glow  of  the  smelting  furnace  from  the  glare  of  a  confla- 
gration. 

Chronicles  of  the  Schonberg  Cotta  Family. 


What  the   Father  said  to  the  School-boy. 

"  A  ND  now,  Tom,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire,  "  remember  you 
are  going,  at  your  own  earnest  request,  to  be  chucked 
into  this  great  school,  like  a  young  bear,  with  all  your  troubles 
before  you.  If  schools  are  what  they  were  in  my  time,  you'll 
see  a  great  many  cruel  blackguard  things  done,  and  hear  a  deal 
of  foul  bad  talk.  But  never  fear.  You  tell  the  truth,  keep  a 
brave  and  kind  heart,  and  never  listen  to,  or  say  anything  you 
would  not  have  your  mother  or  sister  hear,  and  you'll  never 
feel  ashamed  to  come  home,  or  we  to  see  you." 

Tom   Brown  at  Rugby. 


What  the  Father  said  to  his   Daughter. 

"VfEVER  for  one  moment  forget  that  you  are  a  gentlewoman ; 
let  all  your  words  and  actions  mark  you  gentle. 

Lord  Collingwood. 


What  the   Poet  said  to  the  Young  Maiden. 

"OE  good,  sweet  maid,  and  let  who  will  be  clever ; 
Do  noble  things,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long. 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  Forever 
One  grand,  sweet  song. 

Charles   Kingsley 

15  H 


170  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

What  the  Poet  might  say  to  the  Young  Maiden's   Mother, 


T 


IS  all  iu  vain  to  hurry  so, 
They're  roses  and  they'll  surely  blow. 


Goethe. 


n^HE  boy  whose  love  you  cannot  feed  by  daily  nourishment, 
will  find  pride,  self-indulgence,  and  an  iron  purpose  coming 
,n  to  fui-nish  other  supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in  him.  If  he 
cannot  shoot  his  branches  into  the  sunshine,  he  will  become 
acclimated  to  the  shadow. 

D.  G.   Mitchell. 


rpiIAT  domestic  discipline  of  children  may  not  end  in  disap- 
pointment,   three   things,  with   God's  help,   are    needed; 
firmness  of  purpose,  gentleness  of  manner,  and  consistency  of 
example. 

E.  S.  Gannett. 


TN  the  man  whose  childhood  has  known  caresses,  there  is 
always  a  fibre  of  memory  which  can  be  touched  to  gentle 
issues. 

Marian   Evans. 


Happy  is  he  whose  friends  were  born  before  him. 

Old   Proverb. 


Happy  he 
With  such  a  mother !  faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things  high 
Comes  easy  to  him,  and  though  he  trip  and  fall. 
He  shall  not  blind  bis  soul  with  clay. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


BABYHOOD.  171 


BOY   LOST. 


TTE  had  black  eyes  with  long  lashes,  red  cheeks,  and  hair 
-*-^  almost  black  and  almost  curly.  He  wore  a  crimson  plaid 
jacket,  with  full  trowsers,  buttoned  on;  had  a  habit  of  whistling, 
and  liked  to  ask  questions ;  was  accompanied  by  a  small,  black 
dog.  It  is  a  long  while  now  since  he  disappeared.  I  have  a 
very  pleasant  house  and  much  company.  My  guests  say, 
"  Ah !  it  is  pleasant  here  !  Everything  has  such  an  orderly, 
put-away  look — nothing  about  under  foot,  no  dirt !" 

But  my  eyes  are  aching  for  the  sight  of  whittlings  and  cut 
paper  upon  the  floor,  of  tumble-down  card-houses,  of  wooden 
sheep  and  cattle,  of  pop-guns,  bows  and  arrows,  whips,  tops, 
go-carts,  blocks,  and  trumpery.  I  want  to  see  boats  a  rigging, 
and  kites  a  making,  crumbles  on  the  carpet,  and  paste  spilt  on 
the  kitchen  table.  I  want  to  see  the  chairs  and  tables  turned 
the  wrong  way  about.  I  want  to  see  candy-making  and  corn- 
popping,  and  to  find  jack-knives  and  fish-hooks  among  my 
muslins.     Yet  these  things  used  to  fret  me  once. 

They  say,  "  How  quiet  you  are  here !  Ah  !  one  here  may 
settle  his  brains,  and  be  at  peace."  But  my  ears  are  aching 
for  the  pattering  of  little  feet,  for  a  hearty  shout,  a  shrill 
whistle,  a  gay  tra  la  la,  for  the  crack  of  little  whips,  for  the 
noise  of  drums,  fifes,  and  tin  trumpets;  yet  these  things  made 
me  nervous  once. 

They  say,  "  Ah  !  you  have  leisure — nothing  to  disturb  you ; 
what  heaps  of  sewing  you  have  time  for !"  But  I  long  to  be 
asked  for  a  bit  of  string  or  an  old  newspaper,  for  a  cent  to  buy 
a  slate  pencil  or  pea-nuts.  I  want  to  be  coaxed  for  a  piece  of 
new  cloth  for  jibs  or  main-sails,  and  then  to  hem  the  same.  I 
want  to  make  little  flags,  and  bags  to  hold  marbles.  I  want  to 
be  followed  by  little  feet  all  over  the  house,  teasing  for  a  bit 


172  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

of  dough  for  a  little  cake,  or  to  bake  a  pie  in  a  saucer.  Yet 
these  things  used  to  fidget  lue  once. 

They  say,  "  Ah  !  you  are  not  tied  at  home.  How  delightful 
to  be  always  at  liberty  to  go  to  concerts,  lectures,  and  parties ! 
No  confinement  for  you." 

But  I  want  confinement.  I  want  to  listen  for  the  school- 
bell  mornings,  to  give  the  last  hasty  wash  and  brush,  and  then 
to  watch  from  the  window  nimble  feet  bounding  to  school.  I 
want  frequent  rents  to  mend,  and  to  replace  lost  buttons.  I 
want  to  obliterate  mud-stains,  fruit-stains,  molasses-stains,  and 
paints  of  all  colors.  I  want  to  be  sitting  by  a  little  crib  of 
evenings,  when  weary  feet  are  at  rest,  and  prattling  voices  are 
hushed  that  mothers  may  sing  their  lullabies,  and  tell  over  the 
oft-repeated  stories.  They  don't  know  their  happiness  then — 
those  mothers.  I  didn't.  All  these  things  I  called  confine- 
ment once. 

A  manly  figure  stands  before  me  now.  He  is  taller  than  I ; 
has  thick,  black  whiskers,  and  wears  a  frock-coat,  bosomed 
shirt,  and  cravat.  He  has  just  come  from  college.  He  brings 
Latin  and  Greek  in  his  countenance,  and  busts  of  the  old 
philosophers  for  the  sitting-room.  He  calls  me  mother,  but  I 
am  rather  unwilling  to  own  him. 

He  stoutly  declares  that  he  is  my  boy,  and  says  that  he  will 
prove  it.  He  brings  me  a  small  pair  of  white  trowsers,  with 
gay  stripes  at  the  sides,  and  asks  if  I  didn't  make  them  for 
him  when  he  joined  the  boys'  militia.  He  says  he  is  the  very 
boy,  too,  that  made  the  bonfire  near  the  barn,  so  that  we  came 
very  near  having  a  fire  in  earnest.  He  brings  his  little  boat, 
to  show  the  red  stripe  on  the  sail  (it  was  the  end  of  the  piece,) 
and  the  name  on  the  stern — "  Lucy  Low" — a  little  girl  of  our 
neighborhood,  who,  because  of  her  long  curls  and  pretty  round 
face,  was  the  chosen  favorite  of  my  little  boy.  Her  curls  were 
long  since  cut  off,  and  she  has  grown  to  be  a  tall,  handsome 
girl.     How  the  red  comes  to  his  face  when  he  shows  me  the 


BABYHOOD.  173 

name  on  the  boat !  Oh !  I  see  it  all,  as  plain  as  if  it  were 
■written  in  a  book.  My  little  boy  is  lost,  and  my  big  boy  will 
soon  be.  Oh !  I  wish  he  were  a  little  tired  boy  in  a  long 
white  night-gown,  lying  in  his  crib,  with  me  sitting  by,  hold- 
ing his  hand  in  mine,  pushing  the  curls  back  from  his  fore- 
head, watching  his  eyelids  droop,  and  listening  to  his  deep 
breathing. 

If  I  only  had  my  little  boy  again,  how  patient  I  would  be  ! 
How  much  I  would  bear,  and  how  little  I  would  fret  and 
scold  !  I  can  never  have  him  back  again ;  but  there  are  still 
many  mothers  who  haven't  yet  lost  their  little  boys.  I  wonder 
if  they  know  they  are  living  their  very  best  days — that  now 
is  the  time  to  really  enjoy  their  children,  I  think  if  I  had 
been  more  to  my  little  boy,  I  might  now  be  more  to  my  grown- 
up one. 
15  » 


YOUTH. 


175 


YOUTH. 


Oh  beautiful,  all  golden,  gentle  youth  ! 

Making  thy  palace  in  the  careless  front 

And  hopeful  eye  of  man — ere  yet  the  soul 

Hath  lost  the  memories  which  (so  Plato  dreamed) 

Breathed  glory  from  the  earlier  star  it  dwelt  in. 

0,  for  one  gale  from  thine  exulting  morning 

Stirring  amidst  the  roses,  where  of  old 

Love  shook  the  dew-drops  from  his  glancing  hair! 

E.  L.  BULWER. 

But  then  her  face, 

So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth. 

The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart. 

It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled 

Like  some  wild  melody ! 

Samuel  Rogers. 

A  lovely  being  scarcely  formed,  or  moulded, 
A  rose  with  all  its  sweetest  leaves  yet  folded. 

Lord  Byron. 

When  a  girl  ceases  to  blush,  she  has  lost  the  most  powerful  charm  of  her 

beauty. 

Gregory. 

The  beauty  of  this  beautiful  woman  is  Heaven's  stamp  upon  virtue. 
She  will  be  equal  to  every  chance  that  shall  bcfal  her,  and  she  is  so  radiant 
and  charming  in  the  circle  of  prosperity,  only  because  she  lias  that  irresisti- 
ble simplicity  and  fidelity  of  character,  which  can  also  pluck  the  sting 

from  adversity. 

G.  W.  Curtis. 

H »  177 


178  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

She  was  a  form  of  life  and  light 
That  seen  became  a  part  of  sight; 
And  rose,  where'er  I  turned  mine  eye 
The  morning  star  of  memory ! 


Lord  Byron. 

Youth  pastures  in  a  valley  of  its  own : 

The  glare  of  noon,  the  rains  and  winds  of  heaven, 

Mar  not  the  calm  yet  virgin  of  all  care  ; 

But  ever  with  sweet  joys  it  buildeth  up 

The  airy  halls  of  life. 

•Sophocles. 

Look  upon  every  day,  0  youth,  as  the  whole  of  life,  not  merely  as  a 
section,  and  enjoy  the  present  without  wishing  through  haste,  to  sjiring 
on  to  another  lying — before — the  section. 

RlCHTER. 


EMILY   IS   MAKKIED! 

TT  is  wonderful  how  one  young  maiden  freshens  up  and  keeps 
green,  tlie  paternal  roof.  Old  and  young  seem  to  have  an 
interest  in  her,  so  long  as  she  is  not  absolutely  disposed  of 
Emily  is  married.  The  Admiral  still  enjoys  his  pipe,  but  he 
has  no  Miss  Emily  to  fill  it  for  him.  The  instrument  stands 
where  it  stood,  but  she  is  gone,  whose  delicate  touch  could 
sometimes  for  a  short  minute  appease  the  warring  elements. 
He  has  learnt,  as  Marvel  expresses  it,  to  "  make  his  destiny 
his  choice."  He  bears  bravely  up,  but  he  does  not  come  out 
with  his  flashes  of  wild  wit  so  thick  as  formerly.  His  sea- 
songs  seldom  escape  him.  His  wife,  too,  looks  as  if  she  wanted 
some  younger  body  to  scold  and  set  to  rights.  We  all  miss  a 
junior  presence.     The  youthfulness  of  the  house  is  flown ! 

Charles   Lamb. 


A    WOMAN  may  one  day  hope  to  be  an  angel,  but  she  can 
never  ajrain  be  a  girl ! 


YOUTH.  179 


TO   TANNIE   IN   A   BALL   DKESS. 

'pHOU  hast  braided  thy  dark  flowing  hair, 

And  wreathed  it  with  rosebuds  and  pearls, 
But,  dearer,  neglected  thy  sweet  tresses  are, 
Soft  fixllino;  in  natural  curls ! 


Thou  delightest  the  cold  world's  gaze. 

When  crowned  with  the  flower  and  the  gem. 

But  thy  lover's  smile  should  be  dearer  praise, 
Than  the  incense  thou  prizest  from  them. 

And  gay  is  the  playful  tone, 

As  to  flattery's  voice  thou  respondest. 
But  what  is  the  praise  of  the  cold  and  unknown, 

To  the  tender  blame  of  the  fondest  ? 

John   Everett. 


TS  there  anything  in  life  so  lovely  and  poetical  as  the  laugh 
and  merriment  of  a  young  girl,  who  still  in  harmony  with 
all  her  powers,  sports  with  you  in  luxuriant  freedom,  and  in 
her  mirthfulness  neither  despises  nor  dislikes  ?  Her  gravity 
is  seldom  as  innocent  as  her  playfulness ;  still  less  that  haughty 
discontent  which  converts  the  youthful  Psyche  into  a  dull, 
thick,  buzzing,  wing-drooping  night-moth.  Never  fear  that 
feminine  playfulness  will  exclude  depth  of  character  and  sensi- 
bility. Let  then  the  laughter-loving  creatures  giggle  on  at  one 
another,  and  especially  at  the  first  clumsy  make-game  wight 
who  comes  among  them,  even  should  he  be  the  writer  of  this 
paragraph ! 

Jean    Paul. 


IbO  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

I  was  glad  that  day — 
The  June  was  in  mcj 
I  felt  so  young,  so  strong,  so  sure  of  God! 


E.  B.  Browning. 


MAIDENHOOD 

IVTAIDENI   with  the  meek,  brown  eyes. 

In  whose  oi-bs  a  shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Bear  a  lily  in  thy  hand; 
Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth; 
In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
On  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 

Oh,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a  sunless  heart, 
For  a  smile  of  God  thou  art. 


H.  W.  Longfellov 


LirE   IS   BEFOKE   YE. 

r  IFE  is  before  ye !   from  the  fated  road 

Ye  cannot  turn;  then  take  ye  up  the  load. 
Not  yours  to  tread,  or  leave  the  unknown  way. 
Ye  must  go  o'er  it,  meet  ye  what  ye  may; 


YOUTH.  181 

Gird  up  your  souls  within  you  to  the  deed  I 
Angels  and  fellow-spirits  bid  ye  speed. 
What  tho'  the  brightness  wane,  the  pleasure  fade, 
The  glory  dim !     Oh,  not  of  those  is  made 
The  awful  life  that  to  your  trust  is  given. 
Children  of  God !   inheritors  of  heaven ! 
Mourn  not  the  perishing  of  each  fair  toy ; 
Ye  were  ordained  to  do,  not  to  enjoy — 
To  suffer,  which  is  nobler  than  to  dare; 
A  holy  burden  is  the  life  ye  bear. 
Look  on  it,  lift  it,  bear  it  solemnly. 
Stand  up,  and  walk  beneath  it  steadfastly; 
Fail  not  for  sorrow,  falter  not  for  sin. 
But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  ye  win ! 
God  guide  ye,  and  God  guard  ye  on  your  way, 
Young  warrior-pilgrims  who  set  forth  to-day. 

Fanny   Kemble. 


The  childhood  shows  the  man,  as  morning  shows  the  day. 

Paradise  Regained — Book  iv. 


IDEALS   or   WOMAN. 
No.  1. 

AH,  blest  with  temper,  whose  unclouded  ray 
^  Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day. 
She  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  and  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwounded  ear; 
She  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools.. 
Or,  if  she  rules  him,  never  shows  she  rules; 
16 


I8l!  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Cliuniis  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways, 
Yet  has  lier  humor  most  when  she  obeys; 
Spleen,  vai)ors,  or  small-pox,  above  them  all, 
And  mistress  of  herself,  tlioiujli   China  fall  I 

Alexander   Pope. 

IDEALS   or   WOMAN. 

No.  2. 
"VrOT  only  good  and  kind, 

]5ut  strong  and  elevated  was  her  mind; 
A  spirit  that  with  noble  pride 

Could  look  superior  down 

On  fortune's  smile  or  frown ; 
That  could  without  regret  or  pain 
To  virtue's  lowest  duty  sacrifice. 
Or  interest  or  ambition's  highest  prize ; 
That  injured,  or  oflFended,  never  tried 
Its  dignity  by  vengeance  to  maintain 

But  by  magnanimous  disdain. 

A  wit,  that,  temperately  bright. 

With  inoffensive  light 

All  pleasing  shone;  nor  ever  past 
The  decent  bounds  that  wisdom's  sober  hand, 
And  sweet  benevolence's  mild  command, 

And  bashful  modesty  before  it  cast. 
A  prudence  undeceiving,  undeceived, 
That  nor  too  little,  nor  too  much  believed ; 
That  scorned  unjust  suspicion's  coward  fear, 
And  without  weakness  knew  to  be  sincere. 

Made  to  engage  all  hearts,  and  charm  all  eyes. 

Though  meek,  magnanimous;  though  witty,  wise; 
Polite,  as  all  her  life  in  courts  had  been, 
Yet  good,  as  she  the  world  had  never  seen. 

George  Lyttletor. 


YOUTH.  183 


MY   KATE. 

Ideal  No.  3. 
OHE  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
^  And  yet  all  your  best,  made  of  sunshine  and  snow, 
Deep  to  shade,  melt  to  nought,  in  the  long-trodden  ways, 
While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days : 

My  Kate. 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movement  a  grace, 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  in  her  face; 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth : 

My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke ; 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar,  yet  soft  was  the  tone. 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone : 

My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion ;  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  and  wise,  I  infer; 
'Twas  lier  thinking  of  others  made  you  think  of  her : 

My  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you;  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right;  and  yet  men  at  her  side. 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown: 

My  Kate. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  as  adorers  in  thrall; 

They  knelt  more  to  Grod  than  they  used,  that  was  all ; 


184  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

If  3'ou  praised  lier  as  charming,  some  asked  what  you  meant, 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was  felt  when  she  went : 

My  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude. 
She  took  as  she  found  them  and  did  them  all  good ; 
It  always  was  so  with  hei* — see  wliat  you  have ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  e'en  here  with  her  grave : 

My  Kate. 

My  dear  one !  when  thou  wert  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest,  and  loved  thee  the  best; 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part, 
As  thy  smile  used  to  do  thyself  my  sweet-heart? 

My  Kate. 

Elizabeth   Barrett  Browning. 


POET'S   IDEAL. 

No.  4. 

QHE  was  a  Phantom  of  delight, 

^  When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair; 

Like  Twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn ; 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn ; 

A  dancing  shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 


YOUTH.  18/ 

Her  liouseliold  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  Nature's  daily  food; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  Traveler  between  life  and  death; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort  and  command; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  Angel  light. 

William   Wordsworth. 


rKOM     COMUS."      A   MASK. 

Scene — A   Wildwood. 

First  Brother — 

But  oh,  that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost  Sister ; 
Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her 
From  the  chill  dew,  among  rude  burs  and  thistles? 
What,  if  in  wild  amazement,  and  affright. 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat? 
16  * 


ISG  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Second  Brother — 

My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left, 

As  you  imagine;  she  has  a  hidden  strength 

"Whieli  you  remember  not. 

First  Brother — 

What  hidden  strength, 
Unless  the  strength  of  Heaven,  if  you  mean  that? 

Second  Brother — 

I  mean  that  too,  but  yet  a  hidden  strength, 

Which,  if  Heaven  gave  it,  may  be  termed  her  own ; 

'Tis  chastity,  my  Brother,  chastity  : 

She  that  has  that,  is  clad  in  complete  steel, 

Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night. 

In  fog,  or  fire,  by  lake,  or  moorish  fen. 

No  goblin,  or  swart  faery  of  the  mine 

Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity — 

So  dear  to  heaven  is  saintly  chastity. 

That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her. 

Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt. 

And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, 

Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear. 

Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 

Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  th'  outward  shape 

The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 

And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 

Till  all  be  made  immortal. 

First  Brother — 

Heaven  keep  my  Sister. 

John   Milton, 


YOUTH.  187 

All !  n'insultcz  jamais  une  ferame  qui  toiiibe  ! 

^  Qui  sait  sous  quel  llu-deau  la  pauvcr  amc  succombe. 

****** 

Comme  au  bout  d'unc  branclic  on  voit  I'tinceler 
Unc  goutte  de  pluie  oii  le  ciel  vicnt  briller, 
Qu'on  secoue  avec  I'arbre,  et  qui  tremble,  et  qui  lutte. 
Perle  avant  de  tomber,  et  fange  ajpres  sa  chute  ! 

Cette  fange,  d'ailleurs,  contient  I'eau  pure  encor, 
Pour  que  lagoutte  d'eau  sorte  de  la  poussi^re 
Et  redevienne  perle  en  sa  splendour  premiere, 
II  suffit,  e'est  ainsi  que  tout  remonte  un  jour, 
D'un  rayon  de  soliel  ou  d'un  rayon  d'  amour  ! 

Victor  Hugo. 


THE   BRIDGE   Or  SIGHS. 

"  Drowned  !  drowned  !" — Hamlet. 
ANE  more  Unfortunate, 
^  Weary  of  breath, 
Rasbly  importunate, 
Gone  to  ber  deatb ! 


Take  ber  up  tenderly. 
Lift  her  with  care; 

Fashion'd  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing. 


188  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Touch  licr  not  scornfully; 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly, 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny; 

E-ash  and  undutiful ! 
l^ast  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses. 

Escaped  from  the  comb — 

Her  fair  auburn  tresses; 

Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
^Vhcre  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father? 

Who  was  her  mother? 
Had  she  a  sister? 

Had  she  a  brother? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet  than  all  other? 

Alas !   for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 


YOUTH.  189 

Under  the  sun ! 
Oil !   it  was  pitiful  ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 

Feelings  had  changed : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence; 
Even  God's  providence 

Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river. 

With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement. 
From  garret  to  basement. 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch. 

Or  the  black  flowing  river: 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Grlad  to  death's  mystery 

Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Anywhere,  anywhere. 

Out  of  the  world! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran — 


VjO  mosaics  of  life. 

Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 

Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it 

Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  wp  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth,  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them. 

Staring  so  blindly! 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 

As  when  with  the  daring 

Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely. 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest. 
Cross  her  hands  humbly, 
As  if  praying  dumbly. 

Over  her  breast! 

Owning  her  weakness. 

Tier  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness. 

Tier  sins  to  her  Saviour! 

Thomas   Hood. 


YOUTH.  \\)\ 


VIRGINIA. 

OTRAIGHTWAY  Virginius  led  the  maid  a  little  space  aside 
To  wliere  tlie  reeking  sliambles  stood,  piled  up  with  hum 

and  hide, 
Hard  by,  a  flesher  on  a  block  had  laid  his  whittle  down : 
Yirginius  caught  the  whittle  up,  and  hid  it  in  his  gown. 
And  then  his  eyes  grew  very  dim,  and  his  throat  began  to 

swell, 
And  in  a  hoarse,  changed  voice  he  spake,  "  Farewell,  sweet 

child,  farewell ! 
Oh  !  how  I  loved  my  darling  !     Though  stern  I  sometimes  be, 
To  thee  thou   know'st  I  was  not  so.     Who  could  be  so  to 

thee? 
And  how  my  darling  loved  me  !     How  glad  she  was  to  hear 
My  footstep  on  the  threshold  when  I  came  back  last  year ! 
And  how  she  danced  with  pleasure  to  see  my  civic  crown, 
And  took  my  sword  and  hung  it  up,  and  brought  me  forth  my 

gown ! 
Now  all  those  things  are  over — yes,  all  thy  pretty  ways, 
Thy  needle-work,  thy  prattle,  thy  snatches  of  old  lays ; 
And    none  will   grieve  when   I  go   forth,   or  smile  when   I 

return, 
Or  watch  beside  the  old  man's  bed,  or  weep  upon  his  urn. 
The  house  that  was  the  happiest  within  the  Koman  walls, 
The  house  that  envied   not  the  wealth    of  Capua's   marble 

halls, 
Now,  for  the  brightness  of  thy  smile,  must  have  eternal  gloom, 
And  for  the  music  of  thy  voice,  the  silence  of  the  tomb. 
The  time  is  come.     See  how  he  points  his  eager  hand  this 

way ! 
See  how  his  eyes  gloat  on  thy  grief,  like  a  kite's  upon  the 

prey! 


102  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

With   all  Lis  wit,   lie  little  deems,   that,   spurned,  betrayed, 

bereft. 
Thy  father  hath  in  his  despair  one  fearful  refuge  left. 
He  little  deems  that  in  this  hand  I  clutch  what  still  can  save 
Thy  gentle  youth  from  taunts  and  blows,  the  portion  of  the 

slave ; 
Yea,  and  from  nameless  evil,  that  passeth  taunt  and  blow. 
Foul  outrage  which  thou  knowcst  not,  which  thou  shalt  never 

know. 
Then  clasp  me  round  the  neck  once  more,  and  give  me  one 

more  kiss; 
And  now,  mine  own  dear  little  girl,  there  is  no  way  but  this." 
With  that  he  lifted  high  the  steel,  and  smote  her  in  the  side. 
And  in  her  blood  she  sank  to  earth,  and  with  one  sob  she 

died. 
Then,  for  a  little  moment,  all  people  held  their  breath ; 
And  through  the  crowded  Forum  was  stillness  as  of  death ; 
And  in  another  moment  brake  forth  from  one  and  all 
A  cry  as  if  the  Volscians  were  coming  o'er  the  wall. 
A.nd  as  Virginius  through  the  press  his  way  in  silence  cleft. 
Ever  the  mighty  multitude  fell  back  to  right  and  left. 

T.  B,  Macaulay. 


SHE'S   GANE   TO   DWALL   IN    HEAVEN. 

QHE'S  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven,  my  lassie, 

She's  gane  to  dwall  in  heaven; 
Ye're  owre  pure,  quo'  the  voice  of  God, 
For  dwalling  out  o'  heaven  ! 

0  what '1  she  do  in  heaven,  my  lassie? 

0  what  '1  she  do  in  heaven  ? 
She  '11  mix  her  ain  thoughts  wi'  angels'  sangs, 

And  make  theiu  mair  meet  for  heaven  ! 


YOUTH.  1U3 

She  was  beloved  by  a',  my  lassie, 

She  was  beloved  by  a' ; 
But  an  angel  fell  in  luve  wi'  her, 

An'  took  her  frae  us  a'. 

Nithsdale  and  Galloway  Songs. 

17  I 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  FRIENDS 


195 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  FRIENDS. 


Happy  is  lie  whose  friends  were  born  before  him. 


SusTiNE  et  abstine. 


We  exchanged  our  experiences,  and  all  learned  something. 

Emerson. 


CONCE]KNING  rKIENDS. 

"DE  to  their  faults  a  little  blind, 
-*-^  Be  to  their  virtues  very  kind. 

Matthew   Pryor. 


There  are  many  carks  in  life  that  a  little  truth  would  end, 

E.   L.   Bulwer. 


Kindness  gives  birth  to  kindness. 

°  Sophocles, 


17 


197 


198  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

T)ELTKVE  not  each  accusing  tongue 

As  most  weak  people  do; 

But  still  believe  that  story  wrong, 

Which  ouirht  not  to  be  true. 


H 


E  who  has  a  thousand  friends,  has  not  one  friend  to  spare, 
And  he  who  has  one  enemy,  shall  meet  him  everywhere ! 


'pnERE  is  no  better  test  of  friendship  than  the  ready  turn- 
ing  of  the  mind  to  the  little  concerns  of  a  friend  when 
preoccupied  with  important  concerns  of  our  own. 


QORROW  is  a  stone  that  crushes  a  single  bearer  to  the 
ground,  whilst  two  are  able  to  carry  it  with  ease. 


"VTTHEN  a  man  is  no  longer  his  own  friend,  then  goes  he  to 

his  brother,  who  is  so  still,  i 
him,  and  may  again  give  him  life. 


VV      • 

his  brother,  who  is  so  still,  that  he  may  talk  gently  with 


Jean  Paul. 


^OUR  things  come  not  back ;   the  sjJoJccn  word,  the  sped 
arrow,  the  past  life,  and  the  neglected  opportunity. 

Prophet  Omar. 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  FRIENDS.  199 

QINCE  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things, 
•^  And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs, 
Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  few  can  serve  or  save,  but  all  can  please. 
Oh  let  the  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence 
A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  ofiencej 
Large  bounties  to  bestow  we  strive  in  vain, 
But  all  may  shun  the  guilt  of  giving  pain. 

Hannah   More. 


T?OE.  two  enemies,  the  world  is  too  small ;  for  two  friends,  a 
-^    needle's  eye  is  big  enough. 


TTOW  common  it  is  for  one's  friends  to  drop  a  heavy  weight 
-^  upon  one's  heart,  and  then  desire  one  not  to  let  it  dwell 
there ! 

H.   Martineau. 


TJ^ORSE  voi  amereste  meglio  un  amico  piu  ideale  :  non  so  che 
-*-    dire  :  fabbricativelo — Quelle  era  cosi. 


NO  PKKrECTION. 

TT7HEN  a  man  glances  critically  through  the  circle  of  his 

^^     intimate  friends,  he  is  obliged  to  confess  that  they  are 

far  from  being  perfect.     They  profess  neither  the  beauty  of 

Apollo,  nor  the  wisdom  of  Solon,  nor  the  wit  of  Mercutio,  nor 


200  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

the  reticence  of  Napoleon  III.  Yet  forced  to  make  sucli 
uncomfortable  confessions,  our  supposed  man  does  not  like  his 
friends  one  whit  the  less.  *  *  *  Perfection  is  not  essential  to 
friendship.  *  *  *  If  a  man  be  an  entire  and  perfect  chryso- 
lite, you  slide  off  him,  and  fall  back  into  ignorance. 

From   "  Dreamthorp,"  by  Alexander  Smith. 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  YOUNG  MEN 


201 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  YOUNG  MEN. 


Be  bolde,  Be  bolde,  and  everywhere  Be  bolde — 

Be  not  too  bolde ; 

Faery  Queene. — Book  III.,  Canto  XI. 

The  World  is  his  wlio  has  Patience. 


The  borrower  is  servant  to  the  lender. 

Hebrew. 


Fidelity  is  seven-tenths  of  business — success. 

Parton. 


There  is  no  royal  road  to  Geometry! 


ViAM  aut  inveniam  aut  faciam. 

Sydney's  Motto. 


l/TAKE  the  best  of  everything; 


Think  the  best  of  everybody; 
Hope  the  best  for  yourself 


203 


204  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Do  as  I  have  clone — persevere. 


George  Stephenson. 


Whex  the  cup  is  full,  carry  it  even. 

Scotch  Proverb. 


A  man's  best  wealth  ought  to  be  himself. 

William  Austin. 


A 

Succeeds,  and  even  a  stranger  recommends 


DECENT  boldness  ever  meets  with  friends, 

ends. 

Pope's  Honner. 


'F  he  had  promised  an  acorn,  and  the  acorn  season  failed  in 
-  England,  he  would  have  sent  to  Norway  for  one ! 


r^  OODS  gone — something  gone, 

Must  bend  to  the  oar, 

And  earn  thee  some  more. 
Honor  gone — much  gone, 
Must  go  and  gain  glory, 
Then  the  idling  gossips  will  alter  their  story. 

Courage  gone — all's  gone, 

JJetter  never  have  been  born  ! 

Goethe. 


A  MOSAIC  FOR   YOUNG  MEN.  205 

"\T7H AT  you  learn  by  experience  you  learn  pretty  thoroughly ; 
but  at  the  same  time,  occasionally,  much  to  your  cost. 
Thus  by  choppiug  off  a  couple  of  fingers,  you  learn,  by  expe- 
inence,  not  to  meddle  with  edge  tools ! 

Edward  Everett, 


TF  any  one  speak  ill  of  thee,  consider  whether  he  has  truth 
^  on  his  side ;  and  if  so,  reform  thyself 

Epictetus. 


Laziness  is  the  Devil's  cushion. 


Old  Proverb. 


pOUNT  that  day  lost  whose  low,  descending  sun 
^  Sees  at  thy  hand  no  worthy  action  done. 


Allez  en  avant,  et  la  foi  vous  viendrea. 

D'Alembert. 


Never  take  trouble  on  interest. 


T)E  nolle;  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
-^  In  other  men  sleeping,  but  never  dead^ 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own. 

18 


206  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

"DEGIN  nothing  of  ■\vliicli  thou  hast  not  ^ycll  considered  the 
-^  end. 


He  that  despiseth  small  things  shall  fall  by  little  and  little. 

Hebrew. 


Providence  does  not  run  on  broken  wheels. 


A    MAN'S  true  wealth  hereafter  is  the  good  he  does  in  this 

world  to  his  fellow-man.     When  he  dies,  people  will  say, 

"  What  property  has  he  left  behind  him."     But  the  angels 

who  examine  him  will  ask,  "  What  good  deeds  hast  thou  sent 

before  thee  ?" 


^HE  man  that  never  breaks  a  rule 
Is  little  better  than  a  fool. 


Obsta  priucipiis. 

The  one  prudence  in  life  is  concentration. 


R.  W.  Emerson. 


TF  thou  art  anything,  keep  still. 

In  silence  all  will  work  out  well; 
For  one  may  place  him  where  he  will, 
The  real  man  will  always  tell. 


Goethe. 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  HOUSE-WIVES 


207 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  HOUSE-WIVES. 


A    PLACE  for  everything,  and  everything  in  its  place. 
A  time  for  everything,  and  everything  in  time. 


Speech  is  silver;  silence  is  golden. 


A    WOMAN  habitually  gentle,  sympathizing,  forbearing,  and 
cheerful,  carries  a  soothing  and  sustaining  influence  ever 
with  her. 

C.  E.  Beecher. 


An  anxious  mind  is  never  a  holy  mind. 


Do  the  duty  that  lies  nearest. 

Goethe. 


TXTHAT  we  need  most  is  not'  so  much  to  realize  the  Ideal  as 
to  idealize  the  Real. 

F.  H.  Hedge. 
18  »  2n9 


210  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

T?OE,  every  evil  under  the  sun 

-*-    There's  a  remedy,  or  there's  none; 

If  there  is  one,  try  and  find  it; 

If  there  isn't,  never  mind  it. 


'•■  TF  my  foresight  were  as  good  as  my  hindsight,  I  should  not 
make  so  many  mistakes." 


Though  I  am  always  in  haste,  I  am  never  in  a  hurry. 

John  Wesley. 


One  keep-clean  is  worth  two  make-cleans. 


XX7HEIIE  there  is  room  in  the  heart,  there  is  always  room 
in  the  house. 


TX7HAT  I  don't  see 

Don't  trouble  me ; 
And  what  I  see 
Might  trouble  me. 
Did  I  not  know 
That  it  must  be  so. 

Goethe. 


'Yuv.  morninL''  hour  has  gold  in  its  mouth. 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  HOUSE-WIVES.  211 

T  OSE  au  hour  in  the  morning,  you  may  search  for  it  all  day, 
and  never  find  it. 

Old  Saying, 


One  small  candle  may  light  a  thousand. 


Dirt  is  not  dirt,  but  only  something  in  the  wrong  place ! 

Lord  Palmerston. 


Temper  is  nine-tenths  of  Christianity. 


r\RDER  was  made  for  the  family,  and  not  the  family  for 
order. 

H.  B.  Stowe. 


No  sensible  person  ever  made  an  apology. 

R,  W.  Emerson. 


GKANDMOTKEK'S  TMPLKT. 

A  FTER  breakfast,  work  and  tile;  (toil) 
•^^  After  dinner,  sit  awhile; 


After  supper,  walk  a  mile. 


HE  three  family  physicians — Dr.  Diet,  Dr.  Quiet,  and  Dr. 

Old  Proverb. 


T 

Merry-man 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  US  ALL 


213 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  US  ALL. 


D 


TOGt  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  road, 
^    And  merrily  trip  the  stile-a ; 
Your  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 
Your  sad  one  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

Old  Song. 


ON'T  cross  the  bridge  till  you  come  to  it, 
Is  a  proverb  old,  and  of  excellent  wit. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


A  ND  when  the  road  forks   ary  side, 
And  you're  in  doubt  which  one  it  is; 
Stand  still,  and  let  your  conscience  guide. 
Thank  God,  it  can't  lead  much  amiss. 

J.  p.  Hebe! — Gernnan  Burns. 


OEEK  not  to  know 

What  pleaseth  Heaven  to  hide; 
Dark  is  the  abyss  of  time, 

215 


216  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  light  enough  to  guide  our  souls  is  given; 
Whatever  weal  or  woe  betide, 
Turn  never  from  the  path  of  truth  aside, 

And  leave  the  event,  in  holy  hope,  to  Heaven. 


A  SOFT  answer  turneth  away  wrath. 


In  difficult  cases,  do  nothing. 

Edgeworth. 


TF  every  one's  internal  thought 

Were  written  on  his  brow. 
How  many  would  our  pity  move. 
Who  wake  our  envy  now! 

Metastasio. 


T  ET  this  thought  quicken  thee, 
Minds  that  are  great  and  free 
Should  not  on  fortune  pause; 
"Tis  crowne  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  owne  applause. 

Ben  Jonson's  Ode  to  Himself. 


VoLETE  aver  molti  in  aiiito?  flite  di  non  averne  bisoiino ! 


A  MOSAIC  FOR  US  ALL.  217 

TTTE  see  so  darkly  into  futurity,  wo  never  know  when  \vc 
have  real  cause  to  rejoice  or  himent.     The  worst  appear- 
ances have  often  happy  consequences,  as  the  hest  lead  many 
times  into  the  greatest  misfortunes. 

M.  W.  Montague. 


'T^WO  things  there  are,  indicative  of  a  weak  mind;  to  be 
silent  when  it  is  proper  to  speak,  and  to  speak  when  it  is 
proper  to  be  silent. 

Persian  Sage. 


A  RE  head  and  heart  confused  and  sore, 

What  better  wouldst  thou  have? 
Who  loves  no  more,  and  hopes  no  more. 
As  well  were  in  his  grave  1 

Goethe. 


Douceur  plus  fait  que  violence. 


TTE  who  has  health,  has  hope ;  and  he  who  has  hope,  has 
everything. 

Arabian  Proverb. 


"DE  still,  sad  heart,  and  cease  repining, 

-^  Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining. 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 
19  K 


218  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

TTE  prayctli  best,  wlio  lovetli  best, 
-^      All  thiugs  both  great  aud  small, 
For  tbe  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  loveth  one  and  all. 


S.  T.  Colerii 


13e  of  tiood  cheer. 


SINGLE   LIFE 


219 


SINGLE  LIFE. 


THE   OLD    MAID'S   PHAYEK  TO   DIANA. 

QINCE  thou  and  the  stars,  my  dear  Goddess,  decree, 
That  old  maid  as  I  am,  and  old  maid  I  must  be, 
Oh !  hear  the  petition  I  render  to  thee, 

For  to  bear  it,  must  be  my  endeavor, 
From  the  grief  of  my  friendships  all  dropping  around. 
Till  not  one  that  I  loved  in  my  youth  can  be  found, 
From  the  legacy  hunters  which  near  us  abound, 

Diana,  thy  servant  deliver  ! 

From  the  scorn  of  the  young,  and  the  flouts  of  the  gay, 

From  all  the  trite  ridicule  rattled  away. 

By  the  pert  ones  who  know  nothing  wiser  to  say, 

Or  a  spirit  to  laugh  at  them,  give  her, 
From  repining  at  fancied  neglected  desert. 
Or,  vain  of  a  civil  speech,  bridling  alert 
From  finical  niceness,  or  slatternly  dirt, 

Diana,  thy  servant  deliver  ! 

From  over-solicitous  guarding  of  pelf, 
From  humor  unchecked,  that  most  obstinate  elf. 
From  every  unsocial  attention  to  self, 
Or  ridiculous  whim  whatsoever, 
19  *  221 


222  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

From  the  vaporish  freaks,  or  methodical  airs, 
Apt  to  sprout  in  a  brain  that's  exempted  from  cares, 
From  impertinent  meddling  in  other's  aflfairs, 
Diana,  thy  servant  deliver  ! 

From  spleen  at  beholding  the  young  more  caressed, 

From  pettish  asperity  tartly  expressed, 

From  scandal,  detraction,  and  every  such  pest. 

From  all  thy  true  servant  deliver ! 
Nor  let  satisfaction  depart  from  her  lot. 
Let  her  sing,  if  at  ease,  and  be  patient  if  not, 
Be  pleased  when  remembered,  content,  if  forgot. 

Till  the  Fates  her  slight  thread  shall  dissever. 

Mrs.  Tighe. 


"  QO  that  I  would  not  say  but  it  takes  the  like  of  me,  a  single 
gentlewoman,  unacquaint  with  the  real  fash  and  trouble 
of  the  estate  of  marriage,  to  carry  pure  to  the  end  of  mortal 
days,  the  first  grand  thoughts  of  youth." 

Oliphant. 


T  KNOW,  therefore,  of  no  reason  why  a  woman  should  marry, 
except  because  she  cannot  help  it;  because,  ''the  spirit  of 
life  which  dwelleth  in  the  secret  chambers  of  the  soul,  all 
trembling,  speaks  these  words :  Behold  a  God  more  powerful 
than  I." 

Gail   Hamilton. 


SINGLE  LIFE.  223 


BKOTKEK   AND   SISTEK. 


"DRIDGET  ELIA  has  been  my  house-keepci*  for  many  a  long 
year.  I  have  obligations  to  Bridget  extending  beyond  the 
period  of  memory.  We  house  together,  old  bachelor  and  maid, 
in  a  sort  of  double  singleness;  with  such  tolerable  comfort, 
upon  the  whole,  that  I,  for  one,  find  in  myself  no  sort  of  dis- 
position to  go  out  upon  the  mountains,  with  the  rash  king's 
offspring,  to  bewail  my  celibacy.  We  agree  pretty  well  in  our 
tastes  and  habits — yet  so,  as  "  with  a  difference."  We  are 
generally  in  harmony,  with  occasional  bickerings — as  it  should 
be  among  near  relations.  We  are  both  of  us  inclined  to  be  a 
little  too  positive ;  and  I  have  observed  the  result  of  our  dis- 
putes to  be  almost  uniformly  this :  that  in  matters  of  fact, 
dates,  and  circumstances,  it  turns  out,  that  I  was  in  the  right, 
and  Bridget  in  the  wrong.  But  where  we  have  differed  upon 
moral  points,  upon  something  proper  to  be  done,  or  let  alone ; 
whatever  heat  of  opposition,  or  steadiness  of  conviction,  I  set 
out  with,  I  am  sure  always,  in  the  long-run,  to  be  brought  over 
to  her  way  of  thinking !  Her  education  in  youth  was  not 
much  attended  to;  and  she  happily  missed  all  that  train  of 
female  garniture,  which  passeth  by  the  name  of  accomplish- 
ments. She  was  tumbled  early,  by  accident  or  design,  into  a 
spacious  closet  of  good  old  English  reading,  without  much 
selection  or  prohibition,  and  browsed  at  will  upon  that  fair  and 
wholesome  pasturage.  Had  I  twenty  girls,  they  should  be 
brought  up  exactly  in  this  fashion.  I  know  not  whether  their 
chance  in  wedlock  might  not  be  diminished  by  it ;  but  I  can 
answer  for  it,  that  it  makes  (if  the  icorst  comes  to  the  worst) 
incomparable  old  maids ! 

Charles   Lamb. 


224  3I0SAICS  OF  LIFE. 


KPITAPK   ON   AN   OLD    MAID. 

T)EST,  gentle  traveler,  on  life's  toilsome  way; 

Pause  here  awhile;  yet  o'er  this  lifeless  clay 
No  weeping,  but  a  joyful  tribute  pay. 

For  this  green  nook,  by  sun  and  showers  made  warm, 
Gives  welcome  rest  to  an  o'erwearied  form, 
Whose  mortal  life  knew  many  a  wintry  storm. 

Yet,  ere  the  spirit  gained  a  full  release. 

From  earth,  she  had  attained  that  land  of  peace. 

Where  seldom  clouds  obscure,  where  tempests  cease. 

No  chosen  spot  of  ground  she  called  her  own; 
She  reaped  no  harvest  in  her  si^ring-time  sown, 
Yet  always  in  her  path  some  flowers  were  strown. 

No  dear  ones  were  her  own  peculiar  care, 
So  was  her  bounty  free  as  heaven's  air; 
For  every  claim  she  had  enough  to  spare. 

And  loving  more  the  heart  to  give  than  lend, 
Though  oft  deceived  in  many  a  trusty  friend, 
She  hoped,  believed,  and  trusted  to  the  end. 

She  had  her  joys;  'twas  joy  to  live,  to  love, 
To  labor  in  the  world  with  God  above, 
And  tender  hearts  that  ever  near  did  move. 

She  had  her  griefs ;  but  why  recount  them  here — 
The  heart-sick  loneness,  the  onlooking  fear. 
The  days  of  desnlation.  dark  and  drear. 


SINGLE  LIFE.  22 

Since  every  agony  left  peace  beliind, 
And  healing  came  on  every  stormy  wind, 
And  with  pure  brightness  every  cloud  was  lined. 

And  every  loss  sublimed  some  low  desire, 
And  every  sorrow  helped  her  to  aspire, 
Till  waiting  angels  bade  her  go  up  higher! 

Englishwoman's  Journal. 


COUSIN   JANE. 

TTTHAT  do  people  think  of  her? 

*        Old  Cousin  Jane, 
With  a  sallow,  sunken  check. 
Hair  with  many  a  silver  streak, 
Features  never  made  for  show, 
Eyes  that  faded  long  ago, 
Brows  no  longer  smooth  and  fiiir, 
Form  bent  o'er  with  pain  and  care; 
Sad  to  be  so  old  and  plain, 
Slighted  Cousin  Jane ! 

What  do  we  all  think  of  her? 

Our  Cousin  Jane? 
Quieting  the  children's  noise, 
Mending  all  the  broken  toys, 
Doing  deftly,  one  by  one. 
Duties  others  left  undone. 
Gliding  round  the  sick  one's  bed 
With  a  noiseless  foot  and  tread; 
Who  like  her  to  soothe  in  pain? 

Useful  Cousin  Jane ! 
K  * 


226  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

What  do  angels  think  of  her? 

Our  Cousin  Jane? 
Bearing  calmly  every  cross, 
Finding  gain,  though  seeking  loss, 
And  a  beauty  ever  bright 
In  the  rigid  line  of  right. 
Self-forgetting,  free  from  art, 
With,  a  loving,  cheerful  heart. 
Living,  aye,  for  others  gain, 

Saintly  Cousin  Jane ! 

Would  that  thinking  oft  of  her — 

Our  Cousin  Jane — 
Might  our  inward  vision  clear, 
To  behold  the  unseen  near. 
And  in  forms  of  dullest  hue, 
Heaven's  own  beauty  shining  through ! 
Reached — that  land  of  purest  day, 
Passed — misjudging  earth  away. 
What  radiance  will  she  then  attain ! 
Star-crowned  Cousin  Jane ! 


T7ULL  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  (?)  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air 

Thomas  Gray. 


T)ATIENCE  and  abnegation  of  self,  and  devotion  to  others. 
Tins  was  the  lesson  a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow  had  taught 
her. 


SINGLE  LIFE.  227 

So  was  her  love  diffused,  but,  like  some  odorous  spices. 
Suffered  no  waste  nor  loss,  though  filling  the  air  with  aroma. 
Other  hope  had  she  none,  nor  wish  in  life,  but  to  follow 
Meekly,  with  reverent  steps,  the  sacred  feet  of  her  Saviour. 

From   Evangeline — Part  ii. 


A  ND  thou,  when  thou  seest  the  sparrow  fall,  and  many  a 
goodly  ship  suffer  wreck,  do  not  forget  that  we  see  merely 
a  portion  of  the  history;    that  its  last  chapter  rests  in  the 
bosom  of  Eternal  Love  !     Let  us  meekly  wait. 

Chronicles  of  the  Schonberg  Cotta  Family, 


From  an   "  Extra  Leaf  on   Daughter-full   Houses." 

~|70E,SAKEN,  but  patient  one !  misknown  and  mistreated ! 
Think  not  of  the  times  when  thou  hadst  hope  of  better 
than  the  present  are,  and  repent  the  noble  pride  of  thy  heart 
never !  It  is  not  always  our  duty  to  marry,  but  it  is  always 
our  duty  to  abide  by  right,  not  to  purchase  happiness  by  loss 
of  honor,  not  to  avoid  unweddedness  by  untruthfulness.  Lonely, 
unadmired  heroine !  in  thy  last  hour,  when  all  life  and  the 
by-gone  possessions  and  scaffoldings  of  life  shall  crumble  in 
pieces,  ready  to  fall  down,  in  that  hour  thou  wilt  look  back  on 
thy  untenanted  life ;  no  children,  no  husband,  no  wet  eyes  will 
be  there;  but  in  the  empty  dusk,  one  high,  pure,  angelic, 
smiling,  beaming  figure,  godlike  and  mounting  to  the  godlike, 
will  hover,  and  beckon  thee  to  mount  with  her.  Mount  thou 
with  her ;  the  figure  is  thy  virtue. 

Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Hichter. 


228  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


1 


ir  THOU   COULBST   KNOW, 
think  if  thou  couldst  know, 
0  soul  that  will  complain 
What  lies  concealed  below 
Our  burden  and  our  pain ; 
How  just  our  anguish  brings 
Nearer  those  longed  for  things 
We  seek  for  now  in  vain, 
I  think  thou  wouldst  rejoice  and  not  complain. 

I  think  if  thou  couldst  see 

With  thy  dim  mortal  sight, 
How  meanings  dai'k  to  thee, 
Are  shadows  hiding  ligbt; 
Truth's  efforts  crossed  and  vexed, 
Life's  purpose  all  perplexed — 
If  thou  couldst  see  them  right, 
I  think  that  they  would  seem  all  clear,  and  wise  and  bright. 

And  yet  thou  canst  not  know. 
And  yet  thou  canst  not  see ; 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  slow 
In  poor  humanity. 
If  thou  couldst  trust,  poor  soul, 
111  llim  who  rules  the  whole, 
Thou  wouldst  find  peace  and  rest; 
Wisdom  and  sight  are  well,  but  Trust  is  best. 


SOLITUDE   or  SINGLE   WOMEN 

TT  is  a  condition  to  which  a  single  woman  must  make  up  her 
mind,  that  the  close  of  her  days  Avill  be  more  or  less  soli- 
tary.     Vet   there  is  a  solitude  which   old  age  feels  to  be  as 


SINGLE  LIFE.  229 

uatural  and  satisfying  as  that  rest  which  seems  such  an  irk- 
someness  to  youth,  but  which  gradually  grows  into  the  best 
blessings  of  our  lives;  and  there  is  another  solitude,  so  full 
of  peace  and  hope,  that  it  is  like  Jacob's  sleep  in  the  wilder- 
ness, at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  of  angels. 

"All  things  are  less  dreadful  than  they  seem." 

And  it  may  be  that  the  extreme  loneliness  which,  viewed 
afar  oflF,  appears  to  an  unmarried  woman  as  one  of  the  saddest, 
of  the  inevitable  results  of  her  lot,  shall  by  that  time  have 
lost  all  its  pain,  and  be  regarded  but  as  the  quiet  dreamy  hour 
"between  the  lights;"  when  the  day's  work  is  done,  and  we 
lean  back,  closing  our  eyes,  to  think  it  all  over  before  we  finally 
go  to  rest,  or  to  look  forward,  in  faith  and  hope,  unto  the 
comino"  mornins;. 

o  o 

A  finished  life — a  life  which  has  made  the  best  of  all  the 
materials  granted  to  it,  and  through  which,  be  its  web  dark  or 
bright,  its  pattern  clear  or  clouded,  can  now  be  traced  plainly 
the  hand  of  the  Great  Designer ;  surely  this  is  worth  living 
for.  And  though  at  its  end  it  may  be  somewhat  lonely ;  though 
a  servant's  and  not  a  daughter's  arm  may  guide  the  failing  step; 
though  most  likely  it  will  be  strangers  only  who  come  about 
the  dying  bed.  close  the  eyes  that  no  husband  ever  kissed,  and 
draw  the  shroud  kindly  over  the  poor  withered  breast  where 
no  child's  head  has  ever  lain ;  still,  such  a  life  is  not  to  be 
pitied,  for  it  is  a  completed  life.  It  has  fulfilled  its  appointed 
course,  and  returns  to  the  Griver  of  all  breath,  as  pure  as  He 
gave  it." 

Dinah  Muloch. 


T  HAVE  lived  to  know  that  the  secret  of  happiness  is  never 
-*-  to  allow  your  energies  to  stagnate. 

Adam  Clarke. 
20 


230  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


MIDDLE   LIFE. 

QUCH  is  tlie  burden  of  our  tliought  concerning  tlie  middle 
^  age  :  Experience  without  worklliness  j  equanimity  without 
indifference ;  progress  without  instability. 

S.  Osgood, 


EXPECTATION. 

QHE  looked  from  out  the  window 

With  long  and  asking  gaze, 
From  the  gold-clear  light  of  morning 

To  the  twilight's  purple  haze. 
Cold  and  pale  the  planets  shone, 
Still  the  girl  kept  gazing  on. 
From  her  white  and  weary  forehead 

Droopeth  the  dark  hair, 
Heavy  with  the  dews  of  evening, 

Heavier  with  her  care; 
Falling  as  the  shadows  fall 
Till  flung  round  her  like  a  pall. 

When  from  the  carv6d  lattice 

First  she  leant  to  look, 
Her  bright  face  was  written 

Like  some  pleasant  book. 
Her  warm  cheek  the  red  air  quaffed. 
And  her  eyes  looked  out  and  laughed. 
She  is  leaning  back  now  languid. 

And  her  cheek  is  white; 
Only  on  the  drooping  eyelash 

Glistens  tearful  light; 


SINGLE  LIFE.  231 

Color,  sunshine  Lours  are  gone, 
Yet  the  maideu  watches  on. 

Human  heart,  this  history 

Is  thy  faded  lot; 
Even  such  thy  watching 

For  what  cometh  not. 
Till  with  anxious  waiting  dull, 
Round  thee  fades  the  beautiful. 
Still  thou  seekest  on,  though  weary. 

Seeking  still  in  vain ; 
Daylight  deepens  into  twilight. 

What  has  been  thy  gain  ? 
Death  and  night  are  closing  round 
All  that  thou  hast  sought,  unfound. 

L.  E.  Landon. 


TT\  0  die  for  what  we  love !     Oh !  there  is  power 

In  the  true  heart,  and  strength  and  joy  for  this. 
It  is  to  live  without  the  vanished  light 
That  strength  is  needed ! 


IT   MIGHT   KAVi:   BEKN. 

Grod  pity  us  all 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen. 
The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !" 

Ah  well !   for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes. 


232  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

And,  ill  tlie  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stoue  from  its  grave  away 


J.  G.  Whittier. 


THE   UNLOVED. 

'ynE  great  mystery  of  God's  providence  is  the  permitted 
crushing  out  of  flowering  instincts.  Life  is  maintained  by 
the  respiration  of  oxygen  and  of  sentiments.  In  the  long 
catalogue  of  scientific  cruelties,  there  is  hardly  anything  quite 
so  painful  to  think  of  as  that  experiment  of  putting  an  animal 
under  the  bell  of  an  air-pump,  and  exhausting  the  air  from  it. 
[I  never  saw  the  accursed  trick  performed.  Laus  Deo !] 
There  comes  a  time  when  the  souls  of  human  beings,  women 
more  even  than  men,  begin  to  faint  for  the  atmosj^here  of  the 
affections  they  were  made  to  breathe.  Then  it  is  that  society 
places  its  transparent  bell-glass  over  the  young  woman  who  is 
to  be  the  subject  of  one  of  its  fatal  experiments.  The  element 
by  which  only  the  heart  lives  is  sucked  out  of  her  crystalline 
prison.  Watch  her  through  its  transparent  walls ;  her  bosom 
is  heaving,  but  it  is  in  a  vacuum.  Death  is  no  riddle,  com- 
pared to  this.  I  remember  a  poor  girl's  story  in  the  "  Book 
of  Martyrs."  The  "  dry  pan  and  the  gradual  fire"  were  the 
images  that  frightened  her  most.  How  many  have  withered 
and  wasted  under  as  slow  a  torment  in  the  walls  of  that  larger 
inquisition  which  we  call  civilization  ! 

For  that  great  procession  of  the  unloved,  who  not  only  wear 
the  crown  of  thorns,  but  must  hide  it  under  the  locks  of  brown 
or  gray,  under  the  snowy  cap,  under  the  chilling  turban ;  hide 
it  even  from  themselves ;  perhaps  never  know  they  wear  it, 
though  it  kills  them;  there  is  no  depth  of  tenderness  in  my 
nature  that  pity  has  not  sounded.  Somewhere,  somewhere 
love  is  in  store  for  them ;  the  universe  must  not  be  allowed  to 


SINGLE  LIFE.  233 

fool  them  so  cruelly.  What  infinite  pathos  in  the  small,  half- 
unconscious  artifices  by  which  unattractive  young  persons  seek 
to  recommend  themselves  to  the  favor  of  those  towards  whom 
our  dear  sisters,  the  unloved,  like  the  rest,  are  impelled  by 
God-given  instincts ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


TKOM   ENDYMION. 

'VrO  one  is  so  accursed  by  ftite. 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate. 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 
Responds  u.nto  his  own. 

Responds,  as  if  with  unseen  wings, 
A  breath  from  heaven  had  touched  its  string's; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song. 
"Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


RErLECTEB    HAPPINESS. 

T  DO  not  know  when  I  have  been  better  pleased  than  at 
being  invited  last  week  to  be  present  at  the  wedding  of  a 
friend's  daughter.  I  like  to  make  one  at  these  ceremonies, 
and  am  sure  to  be  in  good  humor  for  a  week  or  two  after,  and 
enjoy  a  reflected  honey-moon.  Being  without  a  family,  I  am 
flattered  with  these  temporary  adoptions  into  a  friend's  fomily; 
I  feel  a  sort  of  cousinship  or  uncleship  for  the  season ;  I  am 
inducted  into  degrees  of  afiinity;  and,  in  the  participated 
socialities  of  the  little  community,  I  lay  down  for  a  brief  while 
my  solitory  bachelorship.  I  carry  this  humor  so  far,  that  I 
take  it  unkindly  to  be  left  out,  even  when  a  funeral  is  going 
on  in  the  house  of  a  dear  friend. 

Charles   Lamb. 
20 


23-1  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


From   "  Much   Ado  About  Nothing" — Act  ii.,   Scene  i. 

Leoxato. — Well,  niece,  I  liope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted 
with  a  liusband. 

Beatrice. — Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  woman  to  he  overmastered 
with  a  piece  of  valiant  diist  ?  to  make  an  account  of  her  life 
to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ?  No,  uncle,  I'll  none.  Lord,  I 
could  not  endure  a  husband  with  a  beard  on  his  face. 

Leonato. — You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath  no 
beard. 

Beatrice. — What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  He  that  hath 
a  beard  is  more  than  a  youth ;  and  he  that  hath  no  beard  is 
less  than  a  man ;  and  he  that  is  more  than  a  youth  is  not  for 
me ;  and  he  that  is  less  than  a  man,  I  am  yot  for  him.  There- 
fore, I  will  even  take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the  beard-herd, 
and  lead  his  apes  into  hell. 

Leonato. — Well,  then,  go  you  into  hell  ? 

Beatrice. — No;  but  to  the  gate;  and  there  will  the  devil 
meet  me,  and  say,  Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get  you  to 
heaven;  here^s  no  place  for  you  mauls;  so  deliver  I  up  my 
apes,  and  away  to  Saint  Peter  for  the  heavens ;  he  shows  me 
where  the  bachelors  sit,  and  there  live  we  as  merry  as  the  day 
is  long. 

Shakespeare. 


"  A  S  grandmamma  says,  be  in  no  hurry,  deary;  if  you  get  a 
gofid  liusband  at  last,  ye'll  not  have  waited  too  long; 
and  if  ye  get  a  bad  one,  ye'll  wish  you'd  waited  longer." 


SINGLE  LIFE.  235 


BACHELOR'S   TAKK. 

T7UNNY  and  free  are  a  bachelor's  reveries, 

Cheerily,  merrily  passes  his  life, 
Nothing  knows  he  of  connubial  devilries. 

Troublesome  children  and  clamorous  wife. 
Free  from  satiety,  care  and  anxiety. 

Charms  in  variety  foil  to  his  share; 
Bacchus's  blisses,  and  Venus's  kisses. 

This,  boys,  this  is  the  Bachelor's  Fare. 

A  wife,  like  a  canistci",  chattering,  clattering, 

Tied  to  a  dog,  for  his  torment  and  dread. 
All  bespattering,  bumping  and  battering, 

Hurries  and  worries  him  till  he  is  dead. 
Old  ones  are  two  devils,  haunted  with  blue  devils, 

Young  ones  are  new  devils  raising  despair: 
Doctors  and  nurses  combining  their  curses, 

Adieu  to  full  purses  and  Bachelor's  Fare. 

Through  such  folly,  days,  once  sweet  holidays, 

Soon  are  embittered  by  wrangling  and  strife ; 
Wives  turn  jolly  days  to  melancholy  days. 

All  perplexing  and  vexing  one's  life; 
Children  are  riotous,  maid-servants  fly  at  us, 

Mammy  to  quiet  us  growls  like  a  bear; 
Polly  is  squalling,  and  Molly  is  bawling. 

While  dad  is  recalling  his  Bachelor's  Fare. 

When  they  are  older  grown,  then  they  are  bolder  grown, 
Turning  your  temper,  and  spurning  your  rule; 

G-irls  through  foolishness,  passion  or  mulishness, 
Parry  your  wishes,  and  marry  a  fool. 


236  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Boys  will  anticipate,  lavish  and  dissipate, 
All  that  your  busy  pate  hoarded  with  care; 

Then  tell  uie  what  jollity,  fun  or  frivolity, 
Equals  in  quality  Bachelor's  Fare  ! 


Horace  Smith. 


OUR   IDEALS. 

TT  had  been  the  ambition  of  Mademoiselle  Baptistine  to  be 
able  to  buy  a  parlor  lounge,  with  cushion  of  Uti-echt  velvet 
roses,  on  a  yellow  ground,  while  the  mahogany  should  be  in 
the  form  of  swan's  necks.  But  this  would  have  cost  at  least 
five  hundred  francs ;  and,  as  she  had  been  able  to  save  only 
forty-two  francs  and  two  sous,  for  the  purpose,  in  five  years, 
she  had  finally  given  it  up.  But  wlio  ever  does  attain  to  his 
Ideal? 

Victor  Hugo. 


EXACTIONS   OT.   MAKKIED   PEOPLE. 

'\T7HEN  you  have  once  shown  yourself  too  considerate  and 
self-denying  to  add  a  fomily  of  your  own  to  an  already 
crowded  population,  you  are  vindictively  marked  out  by  your 
married  friends,  who  have  no  similar  consideration,  and  no 
simih'.r  self-denial,  as  the  recipient  of  half  their  conjugal 
troubles,  and  the  born  friend  of  all  their  children.  TTusbands 
and  wives  t<dk  of  the  cares  of  matrimony,  and  bachelors  and 
spinsters  hear  them ! 

Wilkie  Collins. 


SINGLE  LIFE.  237 


A   BACHELOR'S   IGNORANCE. 

"  TX70MEN  have  seven  reasons  always  for  everything  they 
do."  "  What  do  you  know  by  any  possibility  about 
women  ?  you,  who  are  haclielor  haclidorum  ?  I  tell  you,  sir, 
that  until  you  marry,  you  arc  in  utter  darkness ;  darkness — 
and  desolation  \" 

Mansfield, 


A   BACHELOR'S   QUESTION. 
Donne,  donne,  eterni  Dei  chi  v'arriva  a  indovinar? 


Whoever  is  free  from  wrangling  is  a  bachelor. 


St.  Jerome. 


SONG   or  ANTICIPATION. 

r\  DEAR,  I'm  beginning  to  tremble, 
^  Only  think  of  what  people  would  say, 
If  I  should  not  chance  to  get  married ! 
Let  me  see — I  am  twenty  next  May. 

Why,  I  can  remember  the  time, 

When  twenty  I  thought  an  old  maid ! 

But  I  yet  shall  encounter  the  time. 

When  I  think  it's  quite  young,  I'm  afraid ! 

For  myself,  I  don't  think  I  should  mind, 

I  could  live  very  happy  alone, 
But  people  so  laugh  at  old  maids, 

And  I  don't  like  a  laugh,  I  must  own. 


238  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

And  to  have  a  wliole  volley  of  aunts, 

And  cousins,  insulting  my  ear. 
With,  "  I  wonder  you  are  not  engaged, 

At  your  age  I  -was  married,  my  dear !" 

Now,  what  is  more  teazing  than  this, 
'Tis  worse  than  the  creak  of  a  door, 

I'd  wed  the  first  fool  that  came  stalking  along, 
If  I  need  not  hear  this  any  more ! 

But  to  folly  and  wisdom  I'll  give, 

A  brief  sketch  of  my  person  and  life, 
"  Verhum  sat,"  take  my  word  for  it,  I 
Should  make  a  most  excellent  wife ! 

My  eyes  rather  border  on  green, 

My  figure  is  not  very  tall. 
But  I  dress  in  extreme  of  the  style. 

And  that  you  know  makes  up  for  all ! 

My  face's  not  so  broad  as  the  moon's. 
My  foot's  very  well  when  it's  hid; 

I  don't  call  myself  ugly,  I'm  sure ; 
Was  there  ever  a  maiden  that  did? 

I  never  but  once  was  in  love; 

The  years  since  it  happened  are  three; 
But  my  pride  made  me  act  like  a  prude, 

And  my  chosen  one  would  not  choose  me ! 

When  tired  of  loving,  unloved, 

I  thought  the  best  thing  was  to  die, 

So  I  wore  a  long  face  a  long  while. 
And  never  would  speak  sans  a  sigh  ! 


SINGLE  LIFE.  239 

But  my  healtli  was  remarkably  good, 
And  all  I  could  do  'twould  not  fail; 

Not  a  friend  would  confess  I  looked  thin, 
And  I  could  not  contrive  to  look  pale ! 

When  cut  both  by  love  and  by  death, 

I  began  to  be  rude  as  a  bear; 
Full  of  frolics,  and  capers,  and  fun, 

To  make  matter-of-fact  people  stare ! 

Now  to  folly  and  wisdom  I've  given 
A  sketch  of  my  person  and  life; 
"Verbum  sat,"  take  my  word  for  it,  I 
Should  make  a  most  excellent  wife ! 

But  if  "  nobody's  coming  to  marry, 

Nobody  coming  to  woo," 
I'll  flourish  a  cheery  old  maiden, 

And  laugh  with  the  laughers  too ! 

My  face  shall  be  full  of  sunshine, 

My  spirit  a  "  house  of  glee," 
My  heart  full  of  loving-kindness, 

Though  nobody  marry  me ! 

Elizabeth  Austin, 


KIZZY  XKINGLE. 

AM  an  old  maid.  Perhaps  I  might  have  been  married. 
Perhaps  not.  I  don't  know  as  that  is  anybody's  business. 
I  have  a  little  room  I  call  my  own.  Old  maids  like  to  have  a 
good  time  as  well  as  other  folks;  so  I  don't  shut  myself 
moping  in  my  little  salt-box  of  a  room.     When  the  four  walls 


I 


240  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

close  too  tight  aroiuid  nie,  there  are  four  or  five  families  where 
I  go  visiting.  Everybody  is  glad  to  see  me.  If  the  baby  has 
the  colic,  I  tend  it;  if  Willie  wants  a  new  tail  to  his  kite,  I 
make  it ;  if  Lottie  has  torn  her  best  frock,  I  mend  it ;  and  if 
papa  comes  slily  up  to  me,  and  slips  a  dickey  into  my  hand,  I 
sew  the  missing  string  on,  and  say  nothing.  I  have  lately 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  new  family,  who  have  a  whole 
house-full  of  children — not  one  too  many,  according  to  my 
way  of  thinking.  Louisas  and  Marys,  and  Lauras  and  Annas, 
and  Frankies  and  Harries,  beside  a  little  baby  that  its  mother 
has  not  had  time  to  name.  I  love  to  watch  little  children.  1 
love  to  hear  them  talk,  when  they  don't  think  I  am  listening. 
I  love  to  read  to  them,  and  watch  their  eyes  sparkle.  They 
are  oftener  much  pleasanter  company  than  grown  people ;  ut 
least,  so  Kizzy  thinks.  But  that  is  only  an  old  maid's 
opinion. 

Fanny   Fern. 


THE   rOKSAKEN. 

T  LEANT  my  back  against  an  aik, 
Mcthought  it  was  a  trusty  tree; 

But  first  it  bowed,  and  then  it  brak; 
So  my  true-love  did  lichtly  me ! 

0  waly,  waly,  love  is  bonny, 
A  little  time  while  it  is  new, 

But  when  it's  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld, 
And  fades  away  like  morning  dew. 

Oh,  wherefor  should  I  busk  my  head? 

Oh,  wherefor  should  I  kame  my  hair? 
Sin'  my  true-love  has  me  forsook. 

And  s;iys  he'll   never  luve  me  niair ! 


SINGLE  LIFE.  241 

But  had  I  wist  before  this  day, 

That  hive  had  been  sac  ill  to  win, 
I  had  locked  my  heart  in  a  case  o'  gowd. 

And  pinned  it  with  a  siller  pin  ! 

Auld  Sang, 


THE  WOUNDED    KZKRi:. 

OWEET,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart. 

Pass !   there's  a  world  full  of  men ; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware, — 

Malice  no  one  can  impute; 
And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there, 

In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot? 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 
Not  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend; 

Put  up  thy  proud  under-lip ! 

'Twas  merely  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

And  yet,  peradventure,  one  day 
Thou,  sitting  alone  at  the  glass, 

Kemarking  the  bloom  gone  away, 

Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement  was. 

And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain 
From  hundreds  who  flattered  before. 

Such  a  word  as,  "Oh,  not  in  the  main 
Do  I  hold  thee  less  precious,  but  more!" 
21  L 


242  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Thou'It  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part, 
"  Of  all  I  have  known  or  can  know, 

I  wish  I  had  only  that  heart 
I  trod  upon  ages  ago !" 


E.  B    Browning. 


The  first  rule  to  insure  happiness  is  to  forget  one's  self. 


rPHE  disenchanted  earth  to  me  had  no  lustre  to  lose ;  hut  I 
-*-  remcmhei-ed  that  others  continued  to  see  it  in  the  rainbow 
lines  of  varied  bliss. 


n^I8  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

In   Memoriam,  xxvii. 


^PALK  not  of  wasted  affection ;  affection  never  was  wasted ; 
If  it  enrich  not  the  heart  of  another,  its  waters  returning 
Back  to  their  springs,  like  the  rain,  shall  fill  them  full  of 

refreshment. 
That  which  the  fountain   sends  forth  returns  again   to  the 

fountain. 

From   Evangeline — Part  ii. 


^TTIIY  should  wc  faint,  and  fear  to  live  alone, 
Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  willed,  we  die ; 
Not  even  the  tenderest  heart,  and  next  our  own, 
Knows  half  the  reason  why  we  smile  or  sigb  ! 


SINGLE  LIFE.  248 

Eacli  iu  its  hidden  sphere  of  joy  or  woe 
Our  hermit  spirits  dwell,  and  range  apart; 

Our  eyes  are  all  around,  in  gloom  or  glow, 

Hues  of  their  own,  fresh  borrowed  from  the  heart. 

Keble. 


A   PICTURE. 

A  CHEERFUL,  contented,  benevolent  and  popular  lady, 
seldom  behind  the  fashion,  or  behind  the  news  and  litera- 
ture of  the  day,  beloved  by  nephews  and  nieces,  married 
brothers,  sisters,  and  cousins;  a  tower  of  strength  in  times  of 
sickness  and  family  troubles ;  a  favorite  visitor,  yet  not  always 
visiting,  nor  staying  too  long;  sometimes  on  the  contrary, 
having  a  snug  little  home  of  her  own,  where  pet  nephews  and 
nieces  spend  a  few  days  most  delightfully;  a  guardian  angel 
to  the  poor ;  a  valuable  auxiliary  to  the  clergyman  and  clergy- 
man's wife;  in  high  esteem  and  respect  among  the  trades- 
people, a  famous  letter-writer,  and  fabricator  of  most  delightful 
fancy  work.  Aunt  Kate,  Aunt  Lucy,  Aunt  Susan,  and  a  host 
of  aunts,  who  have  been  pretty  young  women  in  their  time, 
and  who  now  have  "  something  than  beauty  dearer."  They 
are  the  salt  of  the  country,  and  greatly  do  they  contribute  to 
the  support  of  the  social  affections. 

Eclectic  Review. 


BUT  after  all,  peradventure,  it  is  sweeter  to  love,  than  to  be 
loved. 


'24:4.  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


NOT   A   MISTAKK. 


AUR  neitilibor  over  the  way,  jjasses  for  a  woman  who  has 
failed  in  her  career,  because  she  is  an  old  maid.  People 
wag  solemn  heads  of  pity,  and  say  that  she  made  so  great  a 
mistake  in  not  marrying  the  brilliant  and  famous  man  who 
was  for  long  years  her  suitor.  It  is  clear  that  no  orange  flower 
will  ever  bloom  for  her.  The  young  people  think  of  her  soli- 
tary hours  of  bitter  regret,  and  please  their  imaginations  with 
fancying  her  hard  struggle  with  the  conviction  that  she  has 
lost  all  that  makes  life  beautiful.  But  this  old  maid  who  is 
thus  pitied  for  a  secret  sorrow,  is  a  woman  whose  nature  is  a 
tropic,  in  which  the  sun  shines,  the  birds  sing,  the  flowers 
bloom  forever.  There  are  no  regrets,  no  doubts  and  half 
wishes,  but  a  calm  sweetness,  a  transparent  peace.  I  saw  her 
blush  when  her  old  lover  passed  by,  or  paused  to  speak  to  her, 
but  it  was  only  the  sign  of  delicate  feminine  consciousness. 
She  knew  his  love,  and  honored  it,  although  she  could  not 
understand  it,  nor  return  it.  Although  all  the  world  had 
exclaimed  at  her  indiiference  to  such  homage,  and  had  declared 
it  was  astonishing  she  should  lose  so  fine  a  match,  she  would 
only  say  simply  and  quietly,  '•  If  the  highest  Ideal  of  manly 
nobleness,  intellect,  and  worth,  loved  me,  and  I  did  not  love, 
how  could  I  marry  ?" 

G.  W.  Curtis. 


JEAN   PAUL'S   QUESTIONS. 

TTOW,  my  girls,  is  your  heart  so  little  worth  that  you  cut  it, 
like  old  clothes,  after  any  fashion,  to  fit  any  breast?  and 
does  it  wax  or  shrink,  then,  like  a  Chinese  ball,  to  fit  itself 
into  the  ball-mould  and  uuirriage  ring-case  of  any  male  heart 
whatever  ? 


SINGLE  LIFE.  245 

'pHEY   arc  never  alone   who   arc   acconipanieil  with   noble 
thoughts. 

Sir  Philip  Sydney. 


One  can  always  stoop,  and  pick  up  nothing. 

Old   Proverb. 


"\7'ET  to  say  truth,  she  is  never  alone,  but  is  still  accompanied 
with  old  songs,  honest  thoughts  and  prayers,  but  short 
ones. 

Sir  Thomas  Overbury. 


To  rejoice  in  the  prosperity  of  another  is  to  partake  of  it. 

William   Austin. 


OLD    MAIDS. 

ALD  maids,  old  maids,  I  love  old  maids,  though  snarling 

cynics  say. 
That  wrinkles,  spleen,  and  coquetry  have  claimed  them  for 

their  prey; 
When  scribbling  rhymers  rail  at  them  and  show  self-lack  of 

sense, 
Shame  on  the  bard  that  would  not  raise  a  pen  in  their  defence  ! 

In  youth,  when  woman's  opening  charms  attract  the  gazer's 

eye, 
And  woman's  snowy  bosom  heaves  with  passion's  tender  sigh  j 
How  oft  the  bright  pure  fountain  of  her  rich  affection  flowing, 


21  » 


246  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Some  fop,  perchance,  luitli  trifled  with  the  lieart  he  could  not 

prize, 
Or  cold  beneath  the  churchyard  turf  a  blighted  lover  lies, 
And  maiden  truth  and  constancy  enshrined  within  her  breast, 
Are  made  the  poetaster's  theme  to  point  a  stupid  jest ! 

Her  life  in  deeds  of  charity  and  kindness  glides  away, 
And  often  wedlock's  saddened  victims  are  by  her  made  gay; 
The  wife  that's  left  to  pine  or  die  in  solitude  or  grief. 
Oft  turns  to  maiden  tenderness  for  solace  and  relief. 

Then  tell  us  not  of  married  dames  excelling  single  ladies ; 
This  matrimony  now-a-days  with  most  a  scheming  trade  is, 
To  "  multiply  by  two,"  oft  means  to  multiply  with  nought, 
And  fortune-seeking  man  and  wife  are  often  sadly  caught. 
They  are  some  nuisances  surpassing  bachelors  or  maids. 
Viz. :  noosed  and  rhyming  Benedicts  who  once  were  roaring 

blades ; 
Who,  like  the  fabled  fox  that  lost  his  tail,  would  recommend 
Their  own  sad  plight  to  each  unfettered  male  and  female  friend. 

United  States  Gazette. 


SONG  or  CASSANDKA. 

rrilEY  say,  '"Tis  time,  go,  marry,  go!" 

But  I  will  have  no  husband ;   no ! 
I'd  rather  live  serene  and  still 
Upon  a  solitary  hill, 
Than  bend  me  to  a  husband's  will; 
No !   I  will  have  no  husband ;   no ! 

So,  mother,  think  not  I  shall  wed. 
And  through  a  tiresome  life  be  led; 


0 


SINGLE  LIFE.  247 

The  man  lias  not  been  born,  I  ween, 

Who  as  my  husband  shall  be  seen ; 

For  I  will  live  all  carelessly, 

And  never  ask,  nor  anxious  be, 

Of  wedded  weal  or  woe; 

In  vain  you  say,  "  Go,  marry,  go  \" 

For  I  will  have  no  husband ;   no ! 

From  a  Dramatic   Eclogue,   by  Gil   Vicente. 


NE  thing  thou  must  not  long  for,  if  thou  love  a  life  serene ; 
A  woman  for  thy  wife,  though  she  were  a  crowned  queen. 

From  the   Persian. 


SOLILOQUY   OF  A   BACHELOR. 

T  DO  much  wonder  that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another 
man  is  a  fool  when  he  dedicates  his  behaviours  to  love,  will 
become  the  argument  of  his  own  scorn  by  falling  in  love.  One 
woman  is  fair,  yet  I  am  well ;  another  is  wise,  yet  I  am  well ; 
another  virtuous,  yet  I  am  well ;  but  till  all  graces  be  in  one 
woman,  one  woman  shall  not  come  in  my  grace ! 

Shakespeare, 


The  tree 
Sucks  kindlier  nature  from  a  soil  enriched 
By  its  own  fallen  leaves;  and  man  is  made 
In  heart  and  spirit  from  deciduous  hopes 
And  things  that  seem  to  perish. 

Henry  Taylor. 


248  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

AH  !  shallow  and  mean  heart!  dost  thou  conceive  so  little  of 
lore  as  not  to  know  that  it  sacrifices  all — love  itself — for  the 
happiness  of  the  one  it  loves  ? 


TTER  lot  is  on  you — to  be  found  untired 

Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain; 
With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 

And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  in  vain. 
Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay, 
And  oh !  to  love  through  all  things — therefore  pray. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


A   REMONSTRANCE, 

Addressed  to  a  Friend  who  complained  of  being  Alone  in  the  World. 

All !   say  not  thou  art  all  alone 

^  Upon  this  wide,  cold-hearted  earth ; 

Sigh  not  o'er  joys  forever  flown — 

The  vacant  chair,  the  silent  hearth ; 
Why  should  the  world's  unholy  mirth 

Upon  thy  quiet  dreams  intrude, 
To  scare  those  shapes  of  heavenly  birth 

That  people  oft  thy  solitude? 

Though  many  a  fervent  hope  of  youth 
Hath  passed  and  scarcely  left  a  trace; 

Though  earth-born  love,  its  tears  and  truth, 
Xm  Inii'jcr  ill   thy  heart  have  place; 


SINGLE  LIFE.  249 

Nor  time,  nor  grief,  can  e'er  efface 

The  brighter  hopes  that  now  are  thine — 

The  fadeless  love,  all  pitying  grace, 
That  makes  thy  darkest  hours  divine ! 

Not  all  alone;  for  thou  canst  hold 

Communion  sweet  with  saint  and  sage, 
And  gather  gems  of  price  untold 

From  many  a  pure  unsullied  page — 
Youth's  dreams,  the  golden  lights  of  age, 

The  poet's  love  are  still  thine  own ; 
For  while  such  themes  thy  thoughts  engage, 

Oh !  how  canst  thou  be  all  alone ! 

Not  all  alone;  the  lark's  rich  note, 

As  mounting  up  to  heaven  she  sings; 
The  thousand  sjlvery  sounds  that  float 

Above,  below,  on  morning's  wings; 
The  softer  murmurs  twilight  brings — 

The  cricket's  chirp,  cicala's  glee; 
All  earth — that  lyre  of  myriad  strings — 

Is  jubilant  with  life  for  thee ! 

Not  all  alone !  the  whispering  trees. 

The  rippling  brook,  the  starry  sky. 
Have  each  peculiar  harmonies — 

To  soothe,  subdue,  and  sanctify; 
The  low,  sweet  breath  of  evening's  sigh 

For  thee  hath  oft  a  friendly  tone, 
To  lift  thy  grateful  thoughts  on  high, 

To  say,  thou  art  not  all  alone! 

Not  all  alone;  a  watchful  eye 

That  notes  the  wandering  sparrow's  fall ; 


250  3I0SAICS  OF  LIFE. 

A  saving  liaiid  is  ever  nigh, 

A  gracious  Power  attends  thy  call, 

When  sadness  holds  thy  heart  in  thrall, 
Is  oft  his  teuderest  mercy  shown ; 

Seek  then  the  balm  vouchsafed  to  all. 
And  thou  canst  never  be  alone ! 

Alaric  A.  Watts. 


OLD    AGE. 


261 


OLD  AGE. 


AUI.B  AGE. 

A  Treaty. 

TS  that  Auld  Age  that's  tirling  at  the  pin  ? 

I  trow  it  is — then  haste  to  let  him  in ; 
Ye're  kindly  welcome,  friend ;  na,  dinna  fear, 
To  show  yourself,  ye'll  cause  nae  trouble  here. 
I  ken  there  are  who  tremble  at  your  name. 
As  tho'  ye  bro't  wi'  ye  reproach  or  shame ; 
And  wha,  o'  thousand  lies  wad  bear  the  sin 
Rather  than  own  ye  for  their  kith  and  kin ; 
But  far  frae  shirking  ye  as  a  disgrace 
Thankful  I  am  to  have  lived  to  see  your  face ; 
Nor  sail  I  e'er  disown  ye,  nor  tak  pride 
To  think  how  long  I  might  your  visit  bide ; 
Doing  my  best  to  mak  ye  weel  respecked, 
I'll  no  for  your  sake  fear  to  be  neglccked ; 
But  now  ye're  come,  and  through  all  kinds  of  weather ; 
We're  doomed  from  this  time  forth,  to  jog  thegither; 
I'd  fain  mak  compact  wi'  ye,  firm  and  strong. 
In  terms  of  fair  gifi"-gafi"  to  hold  out  long ; 
Grin  thou'lt  be  civil,  I  sail  liberal  be, 
Witness  the  lang  lang  list  o'  what  I'll  gie — 
First  then,  I  here  make  owre  for  gude  and  ay. 
All  youthful  fancies  whether  bright  or  gay ; 
22  253 


254  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Beauties  and  graces,  too,  I  wad  resign  them. 

But,  sair,  I  fear  't  would  cost  you  fasli  to  find  tliem ; 

For  'gainst  your  Daddy  Time  tliey  could  not  stand, 

Nor  bear  the  grip  o'  his  onsonsy  hand; 

But  there's  my  skin  which  ye  may  further  crinkle. 

And  write  your  name  at  length  in  ilka  wrinkle ; 

On  my  brown  locks  you've  leave  to  lay  your  paw. 

And  bleach  them  to  your  fancy,  white  as  snaw; 

But  look  na.  Age,  sae  wistful  at  my  mouth. 

As  gin  ye  langed  to  pull  out  ilka  tooth ! 

Let  them,  I  do  beseech,  still  keep  their  places, 

Tho'  gin  ye  wish't  ye're  free  to  paint  their  faces, 

My  limbs  I  yield  ye,  and  if  ye  see  meet. 

Your  icy  shackles  fasten  on  my  feet. 

Sae  muckle  wad  I  gie  wi'  right  good  will, 

But  och !  I  fear,  that  mair  ye  look  for  still. 

I  ken  by  that  fell  glare,  and  meaning  shrug, 

Ye'd  clap  your  skinny  fingers  on  each  lug ; 

And  unco  fain  ye  are,  I  trow,  and  keen, 

To  cast  your  mist}'  powders  in  my  'een. 

But  0,  in  mercy,  spare  my  poor  wee  twinkers, 

And  I  for  aye  sail  wear  your  crystal  blinkers. 

Then  'bout  my  lugs  I'd  fain  a  bargain  mak, 

And  gie  my  hand  that  I  sail  ne'er  draw  back. 

Weel,  then,  wad  ye  consent  their  use  to  share, 

Thus  I  wad  ha't — "When  babbling  fools  intrude. 

Gabbling  their  noisy  nonsense,  long  and  loud  j 

Or  when  ill-nature  weel  brushed  up  by  wit — 

Wi'  sneer  sarcastic  takes  its  aim  to  hit; 

Or  when  detraction,  meanest  slave  o'  pride, 

Spies  out  wee  faults,  and  seeks  great  worth  to  hide, 

Then  mak  me  deaf,  as  deaf  as  deaf  can  be. 

At  all  sic  times  I  lend  my  lugs  to  thee. 


OLD  AGE.  255 

But  when  in  social  hour  ye  see  combined, 

Grenius  and  wisdom,  fruits  of  heart  and  mind, 

Grood  sense,  good  humor,  wit  in  playful  mood, 

And  candor  e'en  from  ill,  extracting  good ; 

0  then,  auld  friend,  I  must  hae  back  my  hearing, 

To  want  it  then  wad  be  an  ill  past  bearing. 

Better  to  lonely  sit  in  the  douf  spence. 

Than  catch  the  sough  o'  words  without  the  sense ; 

Ye  winna  promise  ?     Och,  ye're  unko  dour, 

Sae  ill  to  manage,  and  sae  cauld  and  sour ; 

Nae  matter,  hail  and  sound  I'll  keep  my  heart. 

Nor  frae  a  crum  o't  sail  I  ever  part — 

Its  kindly  warmth  will  ne'er  be  chilled  by  a' 

The  cauldest  breath  your  frozen  lips  can  blaw, 

Ye  needna  fash  your  thumb,  auld  carl,  nor  fret, 

For  there  aifectiou  shall  preserve  its  seat; 

And  tho'  to  tak  my  hearing  ye  rejoice. 

Yet  spite  o'  you,  I'll  still  hear  friendship's  voice. 

Thus,  tho'  ye  tak  the  rest,  it  sha'  na  grieve  me. 

For  ae  blythe  spark  o'  spirits  ye  maun  leave  me, 

And  let  me  tell  ye  in  your  lug,  Auld  Age, 

I'm  bound  to  travel  wi'  ye,  but  ae  stage — 

Be't  lang  or  short,  ye  canna  keep  me  back, 

And  when  we  reach  the  end  o't,  ye  maun  pack, 

For  there  we  part  forever,  late  or  air 

Another  guess  companion  meets  me  there. 

To  whom  ye,  will  ye,  nill  ye,  maun  me  bring, 

Nor  think  that  I'll  be  wae,  or  laith  to  spring 

Frae  your  poor  dosened  side,  ye  earl  uncouth, 

To  the  blest  arms  of  everlasting  youth. 

By  him,  whate'er  ye've  rifled,  stolen,  or  ta'en. 

Will  a'  be  given  wi'  interest  back  again, 

Fraught  by  all  gifts  and  graces,  thousands  moe, 

Than  hearts  can  think  of,  freely  he'll  bestow ; 


256  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Ye  need  na  wonder  tlicn,  nor  swell  wi'  pride, 

Because  I  kindly  welcome  ye  as  guide ; 

To  ane  far,  far  your  better — Now  a's  tauld, 

Let  us  set  out  upon  our  journey  cauld; 

Wi'  nae  vain  boasts,  nor  vain  regrets  tormented, 

We'll  e'en  jog  on  the  gate,  calm  and  contented. 

Elizabeth   Hamilton. 


GOLDEN   WORDS. 

T)UT  now  let  me  tell  you  this.  If  the  time  comes  when  you 
must  lay  down  the  fiddle  and  the  bow,  because  your  fingers 
are  too  stiff,  and  drop  the  foot-sculls  because  your  arms  are  too 
weak,  and  after  dazzling  awhile  with  eye-glasses,  come  at  last 
to  the  undisguised  reality  of  spectacles;  if  the  time  comes 
when  that  fire  of  life  we  spoke  of  has  burned  so  low,  that 
where  its  flames  reverberated,  there  is  only  the  sombre  stain 
of  regret,  and  where  its  coals  glowed,  only  the  white  ashes 
that  cover  the  embers  of  memory — don't  let  your  heart  grow 
cold,  and  you  may  carry  cheerfulness  and  love  with  you  into 
the  teens  of  your  second  century,  if  you  can  last  so  long. 

O.   W.   Holmes. 


THE   mGKT   or  YOUTH. 

T)OW  your  heads  very  low, 

Solemn,  measured  be  your  paces, 
Gathered  up  in  grief  your  faces, 

Sing  sad  music  as  ye  go ; 
In  disordered  handfuls  strew 
Strips  of  cypress,  sprigs  of  rue; 


OLD  AGE.  9r» 


'J.'oi 


III  your  hands  be  borne  the  bloom, 

Whose  long-  petals  once  and  only 
Look  from  their  pale-leav6d  tomb 

In  the  darkness  lonely. 
Let  the  nightshade's  beaded  coral 
Fall  iu  melancholy  moral 
Your  wan  brows  around, 

While  in  very  scorn  ye  fling 
The  amaranth  upon  the  ground 

As  an  unbeliev^d  thing. 
■  What  care  we  for  its  fair  tale 
Of  beauties  that  can  never  fail, 

Glories  that  can  never  wane  ? 
No  such  blooms  are  on  the  track 
lie  has  past,  who  will  come  back 

Never  again ! 
Alas!  we  know  not  how  he  went, 

We  knew  not  he  was  going, 
For  had  our  tears  once  found  a  vent. 

We  had  stayed  him  with  their  flowing. 
It  was  as  an  earthquake,  when 

We  awoke  and  found  him  gone, 
We  were  miserable  men ; 

We  were  hopeless,  every  one ! 
Yes,  he  must  have  gone  away 
In  his  guise  of  every  day. 
In  his  common  dress,  the  same 
Perfect  face  and  perfect  frame; 
For  in  feature,  for  in  limb. 
Who  could  be  compared  to  him  ? 
Firm  his  step,  as  one  who  knows 
He  is  free  where'er  he  goes. 
And  withal  as  light  of  spring 
As  the  arrow  from  the  string; 
22* 


258  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

His  impassioned  eye  had  got 
Fire  whicli  the  sun  has  not; 
Silk  to  feel,  and  gold  to  see, 
Fell  his  tresses  full  and  free. 
Like  the  morning  mists  that  glide 
Soft  adown  the  mountain's  side. 
Most  delicious  'twas  to  hear 
When  his  voice  was  trilling  clear, 
As  a  silver-hearted  bell, 
Or  to  follow  its  low  swell. 
When,  as  dreamy  winds  that  stray 

Fainting  'mid  ^olian  chords. 
Inner  music  seemed  to  play 

Symphony  to  all  his  words; 
In  his  hand  was  poised  a  spear, 
Deftly  poised,  as  to  appear 
Resting  of  its  proper  will. 
Thus  a  merry  hunter  still. 
And  engarlanded  with  bay, 
Must  our  youth  have  gone  away; 
Though  we  half  remember  now 

He  had  borne  some  little  while 

Something  mournful  in  his  smile, 
Something  serious  on  his  brow. 
Think  with  him  how  gay  of  yore 

We  made  sunshine  out  of  shade ; 
Think  with  him  how  light  we  bore 

All  the  burden  sorrow  laid; 
All  went  happily  about  him — 
How  shall  we  toil  on  without  him  ? 
How,  without  his  cheering  eye. 

Constant  strength  embreathing  ever? 
How,  without  him  standing  by. 

Aiding  every  hard  endeavor? 


OLD  AOE.  259 

For  when  faintness  or  disease 
Had  usurped  upon  our  knees, 
If  he  designed  our  lips  to  kiss 
With  those  loving  lips  of  his, 
We  were  lightened  of  our  pain, 
We  were  up  and  hale  again. 
Oh !  if  love,  the  sister  dear 

Of  youth  that  we  have  lost, 
Come  not  in  swift  pity  here, 

Come  not  with  a  host 
Of  affections,  strong  and  kind, 
To  hold  up  our  sinking  mind; 
If  she  will  not  of  her  grace 
Take  her  brother's  holy  place. 
And  be  to  us,  at  least  a  part, 
Of  what  he  was,  in  life  and  heart; 
The  faintness  that  is  on  our  breath 
Can  have  no  other  end  but  death. 

Richard   Monckton   Milnes. 


THE   LAST   LEAr. 
T  SAW  him  once  before. 
As  he  passed  by  the  door. 
And  again 
The  pavement  stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime. 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down. 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 


260  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  now  lie  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 
And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 
That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 
And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 
But  the  old  three-cornered  hat. 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 


OLD  AGE.  201 


And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring; 
Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  clins;. 


O.  W.  Holmes. 


SONG. 

/^H  !  for  the  days  when  I  was  young ! 
^  When  I  thought  that  I  should  ne'er  be  old, 
When  the  songs  came  a  bubbling  oif  my  tongue, 
And  the  girl  that  heard  the  ballad  I  sung 

Never  thought  if  my  pocket  held  copper  or  gold ; 
Oh !  for  the  days  when  I  was  young ! 

And  yet  in  the  days  when  I  was  young, 
In  the  days  that  now  I  remember  well. 

Hot  words  like  sparks  around  I  flung, 

And  snatching  at  honey  I  often  was  stung, 
And  what  I  have  lost  it's  hard  to  tell; 

So  I  would  rather  be  old  than  young ! 

John  Sterling. 


T  FIND  myself  often  moralizing  on  the  present  fast  age,  and 
-^  sighing  over  the  "  good  old  times."  Well,  let  me  be 
grateful  that  the  threads  of  my  life  have  been  woven  into  so 
full  a  web,  and  mingled  in  so  many  fair  colors ;  and  let  my 
prayer  be,  that  I  may  not  say  with  Hood : 

"  It  gives  me  little  joy 
To  think  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 
Than  when  I  was  a  boy." 


2&2  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  ratlier  that  I  may  make  some  approaclies  to  tliat  blest 
abode — 

"And  nightly  pitch  my  roving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home." 


n^HE  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 

Lets  in  new  liglit  through  chinks  that  time  has  made; 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home; 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 

From   "  Divine  Poems,"   written  by   Edmund  Waller  at  8s. 


JOYS   or   OLD   AGE. 

T)EOPLE  place  age  and  youth  opposite  to  each  other,  as  the 
light  and  shade  in  the  day  of  life.  But  has  not  every  day, 
every  age,  its  own  youth,  its  own  new  attractive  life,  if  one 
only  sets  about  rightly  to  enjoy  them.  Yes,  the  aged  man, 
who  has  collected  together  pure  recollections  for  his  evening 
companions,  is  manifold  happier  than  the  youth  who,  with  a 
restless  heart,  stands  only  at  the  beginning  of  his  journey. 
No  passions  disturb  the  evening  meal  of  the  other ;  no  restless 
endeavors  disturb  the  cheerful  gossip  of  the  evening  twilight; 
all  the  little  comforts  of  life  are  then  so  thoroughly  enjoyed; 
and  we  can  tl^n  with  more  confidence  cast  all  our  cares  and 
anxieties  on  God.     We  have  then  proved  him  ! 

Frederika  Bremer. 


17  N  viellissant,  elle  avait  gagn^  ce  qu'on  pourrait  appelcr  la 
^  bcaut(5  dc  la  bontd. 

Victor  Hugo. 


OLD  AGE.  203 


BOYS   AND    GIRLS   rOKEVEK. 

TTEAVEN  be  thanked  for  the  young  old  boys  and  the  young 
•^-*-  old  girls — boys  and  girls  forever — who,  even  when  the 
evening  of  life  is  falling  around  them,  interchange  the  sweet 
caresses  that  call  back  the  days  of  courtship  and  early  marriage ! 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland. 


/CHILDHOOD  itself  is  scarcely  more  lovely  than  a  cheerful, 
kind,  sunshiny  old  age. 

L.  M.  Child. 


ONE   GOOD   OLD   MAN. 

T  THINK  that  to  have  known  one  good  old  man — one  man, 
who,  through  the  chances  and  mischances  of  a  long  life, 
has  carried  his  heart  in  his  hand,  like  a  palm-branch,  waving 
all  discords  into  peace,  helps  our  faith  in  God,  in  ourselves, 
and  in  each  other,  more  than  many  sermons. 

G.  W.  Curtis. 


BLAUTY   or  AGL. 


T)  Y  her  side  sat  a  woman  with  a  bright  tin  pan  in  her  lap, 
into  which  she  was  sorting  some  dried  peaches.  She. 
might  be  fifty-five  or  sixty ;  but  hers  was  one  of  those  faces 
that  time  seems  to  touch  only  to  brighten  and  adorn.  Her 
face  was  round  and  rosy,  with  a  healthful  downy  softness,  sug- 
gestive of  a  ripe  peach.     Her  hair,  partially  silvered  by  age, 


204  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

was  parted  smoothly  back  from  a  liigli  placid  forehead,  on 
•whicli  time  had  written  no  inscription,  except  peace  on  earth, 
good- will  to  men,  and  beneath  shone  a  large  pair  of  clear, 
honest,  loving  brown  eyes ;  you  only  needed  to  look  straight 
into  them,  to  feel  that  you  saw  to  the  bottom  of  a  lieart  as 
good  and  true  as  ever  throbbed  in  woman's  bosom.  So  much 
has  been  said  and  sung  of  beautiful  young  girls,  why  don't 
somebody  wake  up  to  the  beauty  of  old  women  ? 

Mrs.  H.  B.  Stowe. 


A    HUMAN  heart  can  never  grow  old,  if  it  takes  a  lively 
interest   in    the   pairing   of  birds,   the   reproduction    of 
flowers,  and  the  changing  tints  of  autumn  leaves. 

L.  M.  Child. 


n^HROW  yourself  upon  Nature  every  year,  she  is  ever  new, 
and  you  will  thus  be  ever  young. 


The  Poet,  like  Apollo,  his  Father,  is  forever  a  yovtli. 


To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind,  is  not  to  die. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


TTAYE  you  seen,  my  reader,  the  face  that  had  grown  old  in 

life  grow  young  after  death  ?    the  expression  of  many 

years  since,  lust  fm*  long,  come  out  startlingly  in  the  features, 


OLD  AGE.  2(55 

fixed  and  cold  ?  Every  one  has  seen  it;  and  it  is  sometimes 
strange  how  rapidly  the  change  takes  place.  It  is  a  beautiful 
sight  to  see  the  young  look  come  back  on  the  departed  Chris- 
tian's face.  Gone,  it  seems  to  say,  where  the  progress  of  time 
shall  no  longer  bring  age  or  decay.  Gone  where  there  are 
beings  whose  life  may  be  reckoned  by  centuries,  but  to  whom 
life  is  fresh  and  young,  and  always  will  be  so.  Close  the  aged 
eyes  !  Fold  the  aged  hands  in  rest.  Their  owner  is  no  longer 
old! 

Boyd. 


"TTTE  grizzle  every  day.     I  see  no  need  of  it.     Whilst  we 
converse  with  what  is  above  us,  we  do  not  grow  old,  but 
grow  young. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 


T  IFE  is  but  Thought,  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  housemates  still. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 


THE   HOUSE   IN   THE   MEADOW. 

TT  stands  in  a  sunny  meadow, 
-*-  The  house  so  mossy  and  brown, 
With  its  cumbrous  old  stone  chimneys, 
And  the  gray  roof  sloping  down. 

The  trees  fold  their  green  arms  round  it; 

The  trees  a  century  old; 
And  the  winds  go  chanting  through  them, 

And  the  sunbeams  drop  their  gold. 
2.3  M 


266  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

The  cowt^Iips  spring  in  the  marshes, 

The  roses  bloom  on  tlie  hill, 
And  beside  the  brook  in  the  pasture 

The  herd  go  feeding  at  will. 

Within,  in  the  wide  old  kitchen, 

The  old  folks  sit  in  the  sun 
That  creeps  through  the  sheltering  woodbine, 

Till  the  day  is  almost  done. 

Their  children  have  gone  and  left  them ; 

They  sit  in  the  sun  alone ! 
And  the  old  wife's  ears  are  failing. 

As  she  harks  to  the  well-known  tone 

That  won  her  heart  in  her  girlhood — 
That  has  soothed  her  in  many  a  care — 

And  praises  her  now  for  the  brightness 
Her  old  face  used  to  wear. 

She  thinks  again  of  her  bridal — 
How,  dressed  in  her  robe  of  white, 

She  stood  by  the  gay  young  lover, 
In  the  morning's  rosy  light. 

Oh !  the  morning  is  rosy  as  ever. 
But  the  rose  from  her  cheek  is  fled; 

And  the  sunshine  still  is  golden, 
But  it  falls  on  a  silvered  head. 

And  the  girlhood  dreams  once  vanished. 
Come  back  in  her  winter  time. 

Till  her  feeble  pulses  tremble 

AV'ith  tlie  thrill  of  Spring  time's  prime. 


OLJ)  AGE.  267 

And  lookinp,-  fortli  from  the  window, 

She  thinks  liow  trees  have  grown, 
Since  ckd  in  her  bridal  whiteness. 

She  crossed  the  old  door  stone. 

Though  dimmed  her  eyes'  bright  azure, 
And  dimmed  her  "  hair's  young  gold," 

The  love  in  her  girlhood  plighted 
Has  never  grown  dim  or  old. 


They  sat  in  peace  in  the  sunshine, 

Till  the  day  was  almost  done, 
And  then  at  its  close,  an  angel 

Stole  over  the  threshold  stone. 

He  folded  their  hands  together; 

He  touched  their  eyelids  with  balm, 
And  their  last  breath  floated  outward, 

Like  the  close  of  a  solemn  psalm. 

Like  a  bridal  pair  they  traversed 

The  unseen,  mystic  road 
That  leads  to  the  Beautiful  City, 

Whose  "  builder  and  maker  is  God." 

Perhaps,  in  that  miracle  country, 
They  will  give  her  lost  youth  back, 

And  the  flowers  of  the  vanished  Spring-time 
Will  bloom  in  the  spirits'  track. 

One  di-aught  from  the  living  waters 
Shall  call  back  his  manhood's  prime, 

And  eternal  years  shall  measure 
The  love  that  outlasted  time. 


268  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  the  shapes  that  they  left  behind  them, 

The  wrinkles  and  silver  hair — 
Made  holy  to  us  by  the  kisses 

The  angels  hold  printed  there — 

We  will  hide  away  'neath  the  willows, 
When  the  day  is  low  in  the  West 

Where  the  sunbeams  cannot  find  them. 
Nor  the  winds  disturb  their  rest. 

And  we'll  suffer  no  tell-tale  tombstone, 

With  its  age  and  date,  to  rise 
O'er  the  two  who  are  old  no  longer, 

In  the  Father's  house  in  the  skies. 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


De  soir,  fontaines,  de  matin  montaignes. 


COMING   HOME. 

r\  BROTHERS  and  sisters,  growing  old, 

Do  you  all  remember  yet 
That  home  in  the  shade  of  the  rustling  trees, 
Where  once  our  household  met? 

Do  you  know  how  we  used  to  come  from  school, 
Through  the  summer's  pleasant  heat. 

With  the  yellow  fennel's  golden  dust 
On  our  tired  little  feet? 


OLD  AGE.  269 

And  sometimes  in  an  idle  mood 

We  loitered  by  the  way; 
And  stopped  in  the  woods  to  gather  flowers, 

And  in  the  fields  to  play; 

Till  warned  by  the  deep'ning  shadows'  fall 

That  told  of  the  coming  night, 
We  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  last  long  hill. 

And  saw  our  home  in  sight? 

And,  brothers  and  sisters,  older  now, 

Than  she  whose  life  is  o'er. 
Do  you  think  of  the  mother's  loving  face, 

That  looked  from  the  open  door  ? 

Alas,  for  the  changing  things  of  time, 

That  home  in  the  dust  is  low; 
And  that  loving  smile  was  hid  from  us, 

In  the  darkness,  long  ago ! 

And  we  have  come  to  life's  last  hill. 

From  which  our  weary  eyes 
Can  almost  look  on  that  home  that  shines 

Eternal  in  the  skies. 

So,  brothers  and  sisters,  as  we  go, 

Still  let  us  move  as  one. 
Always  together  keeping  step. 

Till  the  march  of  life  is  done; 

For  that  mother,  who  waited  for  us  here. 

Wearing  a  smile  so  sweet, 
Now  waits  on  the  hills  of  Paradise 

For  her  children's  coming  feet. 

Alice  Cary, 
23* 


270  3I0SAICS  OF  LIFE. 


THE   PLEASURE   VOYAGE. 

T  WISH  I  could  as  merry  be 

As  "vvlieu  I  set  out  this  ■world  to  see; 
Like  a  boat  filled  with  good  companie, 

On  some  gay  voyage  sent. 
There  Youth  spread  forth  the  broad,  white  sail, 
Sure  of  fair  weather  and  full  gale, 
Confiding  life  would  never  fail, 

Nor  time  be  ever  spent. 

And  Fancy  whistled  for  the  wind, 
And  if  ever  3Iemory  looked  behind, 
'Twas  but  some  friendly  sight  to  find, 

And  gladsome  wave  her  hand. 
And  Hope  kept  whispering  in  Y'outh's  ear, 
To  spread  more  sail  and  never  fear. 
For  the  same  sky  would  still  be  clear 

Until  they  reached  the  land. 

Health,  too,  and  Strength,  tugged  at  the  oar. 
Mirth  mocked  the  passing  billow's  roar. 
And  Joy,  with  goblet  running  o'er, 

Drank  draughts  of  deep  delight; 
And  Judgment  at  the  helm  they  set — 
But  Judgment  was  a  child  as  yet, 
And  lack-a-day !   was  all  unfit 

To  guide  the  boat  aright. 

Bubbles  did  half  her  thoughts  employ; 
Hope  she  believed;   she  played  with  Joy, 
And  Fancy  bribed  her  with  a  toy 

To  steer  wbicli   way  he  chose; 


OLD  AGE.  271 

But  still  tlicy  were  a  merry  crew, 
And  laughed  at  dangers  as  untrue, 
Till  the  dim  sky  tempestuous  grew, 

And  sobbing  south  winds  rose. 

Then  Prudence  told  them  all  she  feared, 
And  Youth  awhile  his  messmates  cheered. 
Until  at  length  he  disappeared. 

Though  none  knew  how  he  went. 
Joy  hung  his  head,  and  Mirth  grew  dull. 
Health  faltered,  Strength  refused  to  pull, 
And  Memory,  with  her  soft  eyes  full, 

Backward  her  glance  still  bent — 

To  where  upon  the  distant  sea, 
Bursting  the  storm's  dark  canopy. 
Light  from  the  sun  none  now  could  see. 

Still  touched  the  whirling  wave. 
And  though  Hope,  gazing  from  the  brow. 
Turns  oft — she  sees  the  shore — to  vow. 
Judgment,  grown  older  now,  I  trow, 

Is  silent,  stern,  and  grave. 

And  though  she  steers  with  better  skill, 
And  makes  her  fellows  do  her  will. 
Fear  says,  the  storm  is  rising  still. 

And  day  is  almost  spent. 
Oh !    that  I  could  as  merry  be 
As  when  I  set  out  this  world  to  see; 
Like  a  boat  filled  with  good  companie. 

On  some  gay  voyage  bent. 


No  wise  man  ever  wished  to  be  younger. 


G.  p.  R.  James. 


Dean   Swift. 


272  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


A  PETITION  TO  TIME. 

nnOUCn  us  gently,  Time ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently,  as  we  sometimes  glide, 

Through  a  quiet  dream ! 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
Husband,  wife,  and  children  three; 
(One  is  lost — an  angel  fled 
To  the  azure  overheard.) 

Touch  us  gently.  Time ! 

We've  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings; 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 
Humble  voyagers  are  we, 
O'er  life's  dim  unsounded  sea, 
Seeking  only  some  calm  clime; 
Touch  us  gentltj,  gentle  Time ! 

Bryan  Walter  Proctor, 


THE   GOOD    OLD    rRIEND. 

"ly/TY  good  old  friend,  "  he  tirled  at  the  pin. 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered  in ; 
We  were  all  glad  to  see  his  face, 
As  he  took  at  the  fire  his  'customed  place, 
And  the  little  children,  loud  in  glee, 
They  welcomed  him  as  they  welcomed  me. 
He  knew  our  griefs,  our  joys  he  shared; 
There  cannot  be  friend  with  him  compared — 


OLD  AGE.  273 

I  and  my  friend,  we  were  bred  together. 
He  had  a  smile  like  the  summer  weather, 
A  kind,  warm  heart,  and  a  liand  as  free : 
My  friend,  he  was  all  the  world  to  me ! 

Mary   Howitt. 


"  TT'S  hard  we  canna  just  remain  young  a'  the  days  we  have 
to  bide  below,  there's  no  sae  mony  o'  them.     I  never 
could  see  the  use  of  orowino'  auld." 


^T7E  live  in  deeds,  not  yeai'S ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths ; 

In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial ; 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best. 

Bailey's   Festus, 


THE   ONE   GKAY   KAIK. 


T' 


^HE  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 
And  love  to  hear  them  told; 

Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one — 
Some  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew  old. 

I  never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom's  song, 
But  pretty  lies  loved  I 

As  much  as  any  king — 

When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 
And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when  youth  had  quite  gone  by. 
M  * 


274  3WSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Alas !  and  I  have  not 

The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 
"When  one  pert  lady  said — 
"  Oh  !  I  am  quite 

Bewildered  with  affright ; 
I  see  (sit  quiet  now !)  a  ivhite  hair  on  your  head !" 

Another,  more  benign, 

Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine. 
And  in  her  own  dark  hair 

Pretended  she  had  found 

That  one,  and  twirled  it  round — 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


"TTTHAT  matters  it  to  him  whose  way 

Lies  upward  with  the  immortal  dead, 
A  few  more  hairs  are  turning  gray, 
A  few  more  years  of  life  are  fled  ! 

Prof.  Norton. 


"  Lord,  keep  my  memory  green." 


r^  ROWTNGr  old  is  like  bodily  existence  refining  away  into 
^  spiritual  life.  True,  the  ripeness  of  the  soul  is  hidden  in 
the  decay  of  the  body;  but  so  is  many  a  ripe  fruit  in  its  husk. 

William   Mountford. 


OLD  AGE.  21  ij 

"TvEATH  is  another  life.     We  bow  our  heads 
At  going  out,  we  think,  and  enter  straight 
Another  golden  chamber  of  the  king's, 
Larger  than  this  we  have,  and  lovelier. 

p.  J.  Bailey. 


]eVXNING. 

I. 

"\T7HEN  eve  empurples  cliff  and  cave, 
^  *     Thoughts  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye  flow ; 
Not  softer  on  the  western  wave, 
The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 

II. 

Then  all  by  chance  or  fate  removed, 

Like  spirits  crowd  upon  the  eye, 
The  few  we  liked,  the  one  we  loved. 

And  the  whole  heart  is  memory ! 

III. 

And  Life  is  like  this  fading  hour. 

Its  beauty  dying  as  we  gaze; 
Yet  as  its  shadows  round  us  lower, 

Heaven  pours  above  the  brighter  blaze. 

IV. 

When  morning  paints  with  gorgeous  dye, 
Our  hope,  our  heart  to  earth  is  given ; 

But  dark  and  lonely  is  the  eye 

That  turns  not,  at  its  eve,  to  Heaven. 


Croly. 


270  MUSAKJS  Ul'  1. 1  IK. 

(^\\\^V,Vj  (i'er  tiic  youtlil'ul  rmiue  luuHt  roll, 
IJiiL  lov<;   .111(1    liii;   iirc  of  Llio   Houl  ! 


/^ALIi  liiiii   iioL  old,  wlioHC  viHioii.-iry  biain 
JloM.s  o'er  the  paht  itH  undivided  reign, 
{''iir  liiiii   ill   viiiii   (lie  envious  seasons  roll, 
Will)  l)i;ii-,s  (((Tiiiil  ^iiiiiiner  in  liis  soul, 
ir  yil    (lie   iiiiiiH(,ri!rH  soil}.';,  Uie  poet's  lay, 
Hjniii^,  willi   lier  birds,  or  children  wi(h  tlirur  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  lieavenly  dream  of  art 
Htir  the  lew  lile-drops  ereiiping  round  liis  heart — 
Tiirii   to  the  reeord   where  his  years  are  told — 
(!i)iiiit  his  ^ray  hairs,  they  cannot  make  liim  i.ld  ! 

Autocrat  of  the   Breakfast  Table,  No,  vli. 


A     lllvM/rin'  .//./  r.llow,  llial   i«  nut  a  h.ol,  is   the    happiest 

croaliuc  living.      At  that  time  ol'  lil'e  we   have  imlliinii  (o 

imtn<iiji%  a^  llir  [ilir.isc  is;  we  speak  tlu^  downright  truth;  and 

wlu'tluM-  iIk'  ii>i  III'  (lie  world  will  ijlt'r  US  (lu!  privilege,  or  not, 

W<!  have  su  lilllc  (o  arsL  of  (hciii,  that  we  can  /((/.(   it. 

Richard  Steele, 


M^ili')    rarest    of   alliiiiiiiit-iils    is    (o    grow    olij    h.ippily    uiid 

grai'i'lully. 

L    M.  Child. 


OLD  AGE.  211 


TEMPKKANCi:. 

"XTTOULDST  see  blithe  looks,  fresh  cheeks  beguile 

Age  ?     Wouldst  see  December  smile  ? 
Would  see  nests  of  new  roses  grow 
In  a  bed  of  reverend  snow  ? 
Warm  thoughts,  free  spirits  flattering 
Winter's  self  into  a  Spring? 
In  sum,  wouldst  see  a  man  that  can 
Live  to  be  old,  and  still  a  man  ? 
Whose  latest  and  most  leaden  hours 
Fall  with  soft  wings,  stuck  .with  soft  flowers : 
And  when  life's  sweet  fable  ends. 
Soul  and  body  part  like  friends — 
No  quarrels,  murmurs,  no  delay — 
A  kiss,  a  sigh,  and  so  away  ? 
This  rare  one,  reader,  wouldst  thou  see  ? 
Hark,  hither !  and  thyself  be  he, 

Richard  Crashaw. 


A  S  I  approve  of  a  youth,  that  has  something  of  the  Old 
Man  in  him,  so  I  am  no  less  pleased  with  an  Old  Man 
that  has  something  of  the  youth. 

Cicero. 


USE   or   KXPEKIENCE. 

T  HAVE  learned  ac  thing  in  my  auld  age,  that  it's  wrang  in 
-^  folk  to  be  ower  misleared  and  importunate  in  their  requests 
to  their  Maker.     It's  best  to  be  thankful  and  grateful  for  what 
21 


278  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

we  receive,  and  gie  laiin  just  liis  ain  way  o'  tilings.  He's  nae 
likely  to  gang  far  wrang ;  an'  gin  lie  wei'e,  it's  nae  use  crying 
a',  ane  for  ane  thing,  and  ane  for  anither,  that  likely  to  pit 
him  ric;ht  atrain. 


THE  SArE  SIDE. 

^HEN  cease  to  wonder  that  I  feel  no  grief 

From  age,  which  is  of  my  delights  the  chiel"; 
My  hopes,  if  this  assurance  hath  deceived, 
(That  I  man's  soul  immortal  have  believed;) 
And  if  I  err,  no  power  shall  dispossess 
]My  thoughts  of  that  expected  happiness. 
Though  some  minute  philosophers  pretend 
That  with  our  days  our  pains  and  pleasures  end; 
If  it  be  so,  I  hold  the  safer  side, 
For  none  of  them  my  error  shall  deride ! 

Sir  John   Denham. 


0 


LD  friends  are  best.     King  James  used  to  call  for  his  old 
shoes  J  they  were  easiest  for  his  feet. 


John  Selden. 


D 


OPT  thou  think,  because  thou  art  virtuous,  there  shall  be 
no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

Twelfth  Niodt — Act  II.,  Scene  IV, 


OLD  AQE.  279 


SIR  MARMABUKE. 

OIR   MARMADUKE  was  a  hearty  kni-ht— 

^  Good  man !  old  man ! 

He's  painted  standing,  bolt  upright, 

With  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee; 
His  periwig's  as  white  as  clialk, 
And  on  his  fist  he  holds  a  hawk; 
And  he  looks  like  the  head 

Of  an  ancient  family. 

His  dining-room  was  long  and  wide — 

Good  man  !   old  man  ! 
His  spaniels  lay  by  the  fireside. 

And  in  other  parts,  d'ye  sec, 
Cross-bows,  tobacco-pipes,  old  hats, 
A  saddle,  his  wife,  and  a  litter  of  cats; 
And  he  looked  like  the  head 

Of  an  ancient  family. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  the  gate — 

Good  man  !   old  man  ! 
But  was  always  ready  to  break  the  pate 

Of  his  country's  enemy. 
What  knight  could  do  a  better  thing 
Than  serve  the  poor,  and  fight  for  his  king? 
And  so  may  every  head 

Of  an  ancient  family. 

George  Colman, 


280  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

TO   A   GKANBMOTHEK. 

"Old  age  is  dark  and  unlovely." — OssiAN. 

AH,  say  not  so !     A  bright  old  age  is  thine, 
^   Calm  as  the  gentle  light  of  summer  eves, 
Ere  twilight  dim  her  dusky  mantle  weaves; 
Because  to  thee  is  given,  in  thy  decline, 
A  heart  that  does  not  thanklessly  repine 

At  aught  of  which  the  hand  of  Grod  bereaves. 
Yet  all  He  sends  with  gratitude  receives. 

May  such  a  quiet,  thankful  close  be  mine; 
And  hence  thy  fireside  chair  appears  to  me 

A  peaceful  throne,  which  thou  wert  form'd  to  fill ; 

Thy  children,  ministers  who  do  thy  will; 

And  those  grand-children  sporting  round  thy  knee. 
Thy  little  subjects  looking  up  to  thee 

As  one  who  claims  their  fond  allegiance  still. 

Bernard   Barton. 


QO  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 

The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave. 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 


OLD  AGE.  281 

TT  seems  as  tliough,  at  the  approach  of  a  certaiu  dark  liour, 
-^  the  li(jlit  of  heaven  infills  those  who  are  leaving  tlie  light 
of  earth. 

Victor  Hugo. 


"VrOW,  for  my  life,  it  is  a  miracle  of years,  which  to 

relate  were  not  a  history,  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would 
sound  to  common  ears  like  a  fable. 

Thomas   Browne. 


r\N  parent  knees  a  naked,  new-born  child, 

Weeping  thoii  sat'st  while  all  around  thee  smiles  j 
To  live,  that  sinking  in  thy  last,  long  sleep. 
Calm  thou  may'st  smile  while  all  around  thee  weep. 

From  the  Persian;  translated  by  Sir  William  Jones. 


"TTTHEN  an  old  man  was  asked  how  he  had  attained  to  an 
old  age  so  serene  and  lovely,  he  said :  "  I  have  never 
rejoiced  at  any  evil  which  happened  to  my  neighbor." 


T  CAN  well  believe  in  my  being  to  live  hereafter.  77b?c, 
-*-  indeed,  I  am  to  live,  I  do  not  knovr ;  but,  then,  neither  do 
I  know  how  I  do  live  now.  This  living  from  day  to  day  is 
astonishing,  when  it  is  thought  of;  and  we  are  let  feel  the 
miracle  of  it,  so,  perhaps,  that  our  being  to  live  again  may 
not  be  too  wonderful  for  our  belief 

Mountford's   Euthanasy. 
24  ■» 


282  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


BEHIND   THE   MASK. 

TT  was  an  old  distorted  face, 

An  uncouth  visage,  rough  and  wild; 
Yet  from  behind,  with  laughing  grace, 
Peeped  the  fresh  beauty  of  a  child. 

And  so  contrasting,  fair  and  bright, 

It  made  me  of  my  fancy  ask. 
If  half  earth's  wrinkled  grimness  might 

Be  but  the  baby  in  the  mask. 

Behind  gray  hairs  and  furrowed  brow. 
And  withered  look  that  life  puts  on, 

Each  as  he  wears  it,  comes  .to  know 
How  the  child  hides,  and  is  not  gone. 

For,  while  the  inexorable  years 

To  saddened  features  fit  their  mould, 

Beneath  the  work  of  time  and  tears 

Waits  something  that  will  not  grow  old  ! 

And  pain,  and  petulance,  and  care. 
And  wasted  hope  and  sinful  stain 

Shape  the  strange  guise  the  soul  doth  wear, 
Till  her  young  life  look  forth  again. 

The  beauty  of  his  boyhood's  smile — 
What  human  faith  could  find  it  now 

In  yonder  man  of  gi-ief  and  guile — 
A  very  Cain,  with  branded  brow? 

Yet,  overlaid  and  hidden,  still 

It  lingers — of  his  life  a  part; 
As  the  scathed  pine  upon  the  hill 

Holds  the  young  fibres  at  his  heart. 


OLD  AGE.  283 

And,  liaply  round  tlie  Eternal  Throne, 
Heaven's  pitying  angels  shall  not  ask 

For  that  last  look  the  world  hath  known 
But  for  the  face  behind  the  mask ! 

Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE   SPAKK   DIVINE. 

K  MONGr  the  dying,  I  have  observed  some  who  have  been 
the  reverse  of  noble  or  great  during  life,  and  who,  some 
hours  before  their  death,  or  perhaps  some  moments,  have 
shown  an  inexpressible  ennobling  of  the  countenance.  Every- 
body saw  a  new  man ;  coloring,  drawing,  and  grace,  all  was 
new,  all  bright,  as  the  morning j  heavenly;  beyond  expression, 
noble,  and  exalted;  the  most  inattentive  must  see,  the  most 
insensible  feel,  the  image  of  God.  I  saw  it  break  forth  and 
shine  through  the  ruins  of  corruption ;  was  obliged  to  turn 
aside  in  silence  and  adore.  Yes,  glorious  God !  Still  art  thou 
there,  in  the  weakest,  most  fallible  of  men  ! 

Johann   Caspar  Lavater. 


A   T^ETKOSPECTIVE   REVIEW. 

AH  when  I  was  a  tiny  boy, 

My  days  and  nights  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind ! 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye. 

To  cast  a  look  behind ! 


284  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

A  hoop  was  an  eternal  round 

Of  pleasure.     In  those  days  I  found 

A  top  a  joyous  thing; 
But  now  those  past  delights  I  drop, 
My  Head,  alas !  is  all  my  top. 

And  careful  thoughts  the  string ! 

My  marbles — once  my  bag  was  stored — 
Now  I  must  play  with  Elgin's  lord, 

With  Theseus  for  a  taw ! 
My  playful  horse  has  slipp'd  his  string. 
Forgotten  all  his  capering, 

And  harnessed  to  the  law ! 

My  kite — how  fast  and  far  it  flew ! 
Whilst  I,  a  sort  of  Franklin,  drew 

My  pleasure  from  the  sky ! 
'Twas  paper'd  o'er  with  studious  themes 
The  tasks  I  wrote — my  present  dreams 

Will  never  soar  so  high. 

My  joys  are  wingless  all,  and  dead; 
My  dumps  are  made  of  more  than  lead,- 

My  flights  soon  find  a  fall; 
My  fears  prevail,  my  fancies  droop, 
Joy  never  cometh  with  a  whoop. 

And  seldom  with  a  call ! 

My  football's  laid  upon  the  shelf; 
I  am  a  shuttlecock  myself. 

The  world  knocks  to  and  fro — 
My  archery  is  all  unlearned. 
And  grief  against  myself  has  turn'd 

My  arrows  and  my  bow ! 


OLD  AGE.  285 

No  more  in  noontide  sun  I  bask; 
My  Authorship's  an  endless  task, 

My  head's  ne'er  out  of  school ; 
My  heart  is  pain'd  with  scorn  and  slight, 
I  have  too  many  foes  to  fight. 

And  friends  grown  strangely  cool. 

The  very  chum  that  shared  my  cake 
Holds  out  so  cold  a  hand  to  shake. 

It  makes  me  shrink  and  sigh ; 
On  this  I  will  not  dwell  and  hang, 
The  changeling  would  not  feel  a  pang. 

Though  these  should  meet  his  eye ! 

No  skies  so  blue,  or  so  serene 

As  then;  no  leaves  look  half  so  green 

As  clothed  the  play-ground  tree ! 
All  things  I  loved  are  alter'd  so. 
Nor  does  it  ease  my  heart  to  know 

That  change  resides  in  me ! 

Oh,  for  the  garb  that  marked  the  boy. 
The  trowsers  made  of  corduroy, 

Well  inked  with  black  and  red; 
The  crownless  hat,  ne'er  deemed  an  ill, 
It  only  let  the  sunshine  still 

Repose  upon  my  head ! 

Oh,  for  the  ribbon  round  the  neck ! 
The  careless  dog's  ears  apt  to  deck 

My  book  and  collar  both! 
How  can  this  formal  man  be  styled 
Merely  an  Alexandrine  child, 

A  boy  of  larger  growth  ? 


286  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Oil,  for  that  small,  small  beer  anew ! 
And  (heaven's  own  type)  that  mild  sky  blue 

That  washed  my  sweet  meals  down; 
The  master  even !  and  that  small  Turk 
That  fagged  me !  worse  is  now  my  work ; 

A  fag  for  all  the  town! 

Oh,  for  the  lessons  learned  by  heart ! 
Ay,  though  the  very  birch's  smart 

Should  mark  those  hours  again ; 
I'd  "  kiss  the  rod,"  and  be  resigned 
Beneath  the  stroke,  and  even  find 

Some  sugar  in  the  cane ! 

The  Arabian  Nights  rehearsed  in  bed, 
The  Fairy  Tales  in  school-time  read. 

By  stealth,  'twixt  verb  and  noun ! 
The  angel  form  which  always  walked 
In  all  my  dreams,  and  looked  and  talked 

Exactly  like  Miss  Brown  ! 

The  "  omne  bene" — Christmas  come  ! 
The  prize  of  merit  won  for  home; 

Merit  had  prizes  then ! 
But  now  I  write  for  days  and  days — 
For  fame,  a  deal  of  empty  praise, 

Without  the  silver  pen ! 

Then  home,  sweet  home  !  the  crowded  coach, 
The  joyous  shout,  the  loud  approach, 

The  winding  horns  like  rams' ! 
The  meeting  sweet  that  made  me  thrill, 
The  sweetmeats  almost  sweeter  still. 

No  "satis"  to  the  '"jams!" 


OLD  AGE.  287 


When  tbat  I  was  a  tiny  boy, 

My  days  and  niglits  were  full  of  joy, 

My  mates  were  blithe  and  kind; 
No  wonder  that  I  sometimes  sigh, 
And  dash  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye. 

To  cast  a  look  behind ! 


Thomas   Hood. 


T^HE  days  of  our  youth !  had  we  a  grip  o'  them  back  again, 
how  diiFerent  like  wad  we  use  them ;  at  least  so  we  think, 
but  wha   can  hinder  the  wind  to   blaw  ?     Youth  winna  be 
guided. 


"FT  is  a  fine  thing  to  ripen  without  shrivelling ;  to  reach  the 

calmness    of  age,   yet   keep    the   warm   heart   and   ready 

sympathy  of  youth. 


Boyd. 


r\F  this  old  man,  let  this  just  praise  be  given. 
Heaven  was  in  him  before  he  was  in  heaven. 


OLX)   AGE. 

"VTTHEN  life  has  been  well  spent,  age  is  a  loss  of  what  it 
'  ^  can  well  spare — muscular  strength,  organic  instincts, 
gross  bulk,  and  works  that  belong  to  these.  But  the  central 
wisdom,  which  was  old  in  infimcy,  is  young  in  four-score  years, 
and,  dropping  ofi"  obstructions,  leaves  in  happy  subjects  the 


288  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

mind  purified  and  wise.  I  have  lieard  tliat  wliocver  loves  is 
in  no  condition  old.  I  have  heard,  that  whenever  the  name 
of  man  is  spoken,  the  doctrine  of  immortality  is  announced; 
it  cleaves  to  his  constitution.  The  mode  of  it  baffles  our  wit, 
and  no  whisper  comes  to  us  from  the  other  side.  But  the 
inference  from  the  working  of  intellect,  hiving  knowledge, 
hiving  skill — at  the  end  of  life  just  ready  to  be  born — affirms 
the  inspirations  of  affection  and  of  the  moral  sentiment. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 


The  acts  of  this  life  shall  be  the  fate  of  the  next. 

Eastern  Saying. 


ANOTHER   CHANCE. 

ny/TY  days  go  by,  till  I  stand  despairing; 

For  those  were  evil,  and  these  were  vain, 
Yet  hope,  my  heart,  for  the  time  is  nearing 
When  I  may  renew  my  life  again. 

E.  S.  Turner. 


THE   OLD    MAN'S   EUNERAL. 

T  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 

A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year; 
Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 

And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed. 

And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed  aloud. 


OLD  AGE.  289 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 
In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 

Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 
Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain; 

Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 

Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the  ripened  mast. 

Ye  sigli  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled. 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky. 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 

O'er  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain  head. 

Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done. 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun  is  set? 

His  youth  was  innocent;  his  riper  age, 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day; 

And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm  and  sage, 
Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 

Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 

To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well-spent. 

That  life  was  happy;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his. 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb. 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

25  N 


21*0  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

And  I  ;iin  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long^ 
And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward; 

Nor  deem  that  kindly  nature  did  him  wrong, 
Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 

When  his  weak  hand  gi"ew  palsied,  and  his  eye 

Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die. 

William  C.  Bryant. 


TV, T EMORY,  wit,  fancy,  acuteness,  cannot  gi'ow  young  again 
in  old  ago;  but  the  heart  can. 

Jean   Paul. 


MY    rirXIETM    BIRTHDAY. 

T  USED  to  think,  when  I,  a  child, 

Played  with  the  pebbles  on  the  shore, 
Of  the  clear  river,  rippling  wild, 

That  rolled  before  njy  father's  door, 
IIow  long,  how  very  long  'twould  be 

Ere  I  could  live  out  fifty  years; 
To  think  of  it  oft  checked  my  glee. 

And  filled  my  childish  heart  with  fears. 

I  looked  at  grandma  as  she  sat. 

Her  forehead  decked  with  silvery  rime. 
And  thought  "  AVhen  I'm  as  old  as  that, 

Must  I  darn  stockings  all  the  time  ? 
Must  I  sit  in  an  arm-chair  so, 

A  white  frilled  cap  around  my  face. 
With  dull  drab  strings,  and  ne'er  a  bow. 

And   k<c|i  things  always   in   tluTir  pliice'r" 


OLD  AGE.  291 

The  lines  of  care,  the  sigli  of  pain, 

The  "Hush"  her  lips  so  oft  let  fall, 
Made  me  wish  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

I  never  might  grow  old  at  all. 
Yet  she  was  ever  cheerful,  and 

Would  ofttimes  join  our  sports  and  niirlli; 
And  many  a  play  by  her  was  planned 

Around  the  winter  evening  hearth. 

But  then  she  played  not  by  the  brook, 

She  did  not  gather  pretty  flowers. 
She  did  not  sing  with  merry  look, 

Nor  make  a  spring-time  of  the  hours. 
So,  when  she  said,  one  sunny  morn, 
"  You  will  be  old,  like  me,  some  day," 
I  wept  like  one  of  hope  forlorn. 

And  threw  my  playthings  all  away. 

Be  old !  like  grandma,  and  not  roam 

The  glen  in  spring,  for  violets  blue. 
Or  bring  the  bright  May  blossoms  home, 

Or  pick  the  strawberries  'mong  the  dew ! 
Be  old !  and  in  the  summer  time 

Take  weary  naps  in  mid-day  hours. 
And  fail  the  Chandler  trees  to  climb. 

And  shake  the  ripening  fruit  in  showers ! 

Be  old !  and  have  no  nutting-bees 

Upon  the  hillside,  rustling  brown, 
Or  hang  upon  the  vine-clad  trees. 

And  shout  the  rich  ripe  clusters  down ! 
Be  old !  and  sit  round  wintry  fires ! 

Be  fifty !  have  no  sliding  spree ! 
And  hush  away  all  wild  desires! 

I  thouo-ht  'twere  better  not  to  bo. 


292  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

But  two-score  years  have  glided  by, 

With  suiumer's  heat  and  winter's  cold, 
AVith  sunny  hours  and  clouded  sky, 

Till  now  I'm  fifty — now  I'm  old. 
The  sun-burnt  locks  are  silvery  now. 

That  used  to  dangle  in  the  windj 
And  eyes  are  dim,  and  feet  move  slow. 

That  left  my  playmates  all  behind. 

*  ;•:  ^  5|c  * 

But  life  has  pleasures  holier  still 

Than  childhood's  play  with  all  its  zest, 
That,  as  we  journey  down  the  hill. 

Make  each  succeeding  year  the  best. 
Now  stalwart  men  are  at  my  hearth. 

And  "  bonnic  lassies"  laughing  free, 
That  had  not  lived  on  this  good  earth, 

To  love  and  labor,  but  for  me. 

And  shall  I  pine  for  childhood's  joys, 

For  woodland  walks  and  violets  blue, 
While  round  me  merry  girls  and  boys 

Are  doing  what  I  used  to  do? 
]My  days  of  toil,  my  years  of  care. 

Have  never  chilled  my  spirit's  flow, 
Or  made  one  flower  of  life  less  fair 

Than  in  the  spring-time  long  ago. 

'J'lic  paths  I  trod  were  sometimes  rough. 

And  sharp  and  piercing  to  my  feetj 
Yet  there  were  daisied  walks  enough 

To  make  it  all  seem  smooth  and  sweet. 
Friends  that  I  loved  have  passed  from  sight 

Before  me  to  my  spirit  home; 
But  in  the  day  that  knows  no  night, 

T  know  they'll  greet  mc  when  T  come. 


OLD  AGE.  293 

Hopes  that  I  cherished,  too,  were  vain ; 

But  I  have  lived  to  feel  and  know 
That  were  life  to  live  o'er  again, 

'Twere  better  that  it  should  be  so. 
At  every  winding  of  the  way 

I've  sought  for  love,  and  love  have  given ; 
For  love  can  cheer  the  darkest  day, 

And  make  the  poorest  home  a  heaven. 

Oh,  ye  who're  passing  down,  like  me 

Life's  autumn  side,  be  brave  and  strong 
And  teach  the  lisper  at  your  knee 

That  fifty  years  is  not  so  long ; 
That  if  they  would  be  ever  young, 

And  free  from  dolorous  pain  and  care, 
The  life-harp  must  be  ever  strung 

With  love  of  duty  everywhere. 

As  violins  in  foreign  lands, 

Broken  and  shattered  o'er  and  o'or, 
When  mended  and  in  skilful  hands, 

Make  sweeter  music  than  before ; 
So,  oft  the  heart,  by  sorrow  torn, 

Grives  forth  a  loftier,  clearer  song 
Than  that  which  greeted  us  at  morn, 

When  it  was  new,  and  brave,  and  strong. 

Father,  I  thank  thee  for  them  all, 

These  fifty  years,  which  now  are  passed ; 
Oh  !  guide  me,  guard  me,  till  the  fall 

Of  death  my  form  shall  hide  at  last. 
Let  me  in  love  and  kindness  still 

Live  on,  and  ne'er  grow  hard  and  cold  ;■ 
Bend  me  and  break  me  to  thy  will, 

But  may  my  spirit  ne'er  grow  old! 

Frances  D.  Gage. 
25  ■« 


294  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

TTTHEN  the  little  one  sits  on  your  knee,  and  lays  upon  your 

slioulder  a  little  head  with  golden  ringlets,  you  do  not 

mind  very  much  though  your  own  hair  (what  is  left  of  it)  is 

getting  shot  with  gray. 


Boyd. 


A 


PERSON    is   always   startled    when    he    hears   himself 
seriously  called  old  for  the  first  time. 


O.  W.  Holmes. 


IT   NEVEK   COMES   AGAIN. 

'yilERE  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain ; 
But  when  youth,  the  dream  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  we  are  better, 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign ; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  you  with  flying  feet. 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain ; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  a2;ain  ! 


The  memory  of  youth  is — a  sigh  ! 


R.  H.  Stoddard. 


Old   Proverb. 


OLD  AGE.  29i 


TROM      HALL   Or   TANTASY." 

NEVERTHELESS  I  confide  the  whole   matter  to  I'rovi- 
dence,  and  shall  endeavor  so  to  live,  that  the  world  may 
come  to  an  end  at  any  moment,  without  leaving  me  at  a  loss 
to  find  foothold  somewhere  else. 

Hawthorne. 


TKL   GKANDMOTKEK'S   APOLO&Y. 

A  ND  Willy,  my  eldest  born,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Annie? 
Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a 
man. 
And  Willy's  wife  has  written  :  she  never  was  overwise. 
Never  the  wife  for  Willy :  he  wouldn't  take  my  advice. 

For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  fither  was  not  the  man  to  save, 
Hadn't  a  head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 
Pretty  enough,  very  pretty !  but  I  was  against  it  for  one. 
Eh !  but  he  wouldn't  hear  me — and  Willy  you  say  is  gone. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest  boy,  the  flower  of  the  flock. 
Never  a  man  could  fling  him  :  for  Willy  stood  like  a  rock. 
"Here's  a  leg  for  a  babe  of  a  week !"  says  doctor;  and  he 

would  be  bound. 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his 

tongue ! 
I  ought  to  have  gone  before  him  :  I  wonder  he  went  so  young. 
I  cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie :  I  have  not  long  to  stay; 
Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 


29G  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

AYhy  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ?  you  tliiuk  I  am  hard  and 

cold ; 
Hut  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I  am  so  old : 
[  cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I  weep  for  the  rest  5 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

For  I  remember  a  quarrel  I  had  with  your  father,  my  dear, 
All  for  a  slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a  tear. 
I  mean  your  grandflither,  Annie :  it  cost  me  a  world  of  woe, 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I  knew 

right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tripp'd  in  her  time :  I  knew,  but  I  would  not 

tell. 
And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar ! 
But  the  tongue  is  a  fix'e  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a 

fire. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  like- 
wise. 

That  a  lie  which  is  half  a  truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies, 

That  a  lie  which  is  all  a  lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  out- 
right. 

But  a  lie  which  is  part  a  truth  is  a  harder  matter  to  fight. 

And  Will)''  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a  week  and  a 

day ; 
And  ail  thing's  look'd  half-dead,  though  it  was  the  middle  of 

May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been ! 
But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one's  self  clean. 

And  I  cried  myself  well-nigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 
I  climb'd  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the 
gate. 


OLD  AGE.  297 

The  moon  like  a  rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale, 
And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrup'd  tlie 
nightingale. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  stopp'd ;  there  pass'd  by  the  gate  of  the 

farm, 
Willy — he  didn't  see  me — and  Jenny  liung  on  his  arm. 
Out  into  the  road  I  started,  and  spoke  I  scarce  knew  how ; 
Ah,  there's  no  fool  like  the  old  one — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a  man,  and  look'd  the  thing  that  he  meant; 
Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a  mocking  courtesy  and  went. 
And  I  said,  "  Let  us  part :  in  a  hundred  years  it'll  all  be  the 

same. 
You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name." 

And  he  turn'd,  and  I  saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moon- 
shine : 
"  Sweet-heart,  I  love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 
And  what  do  I  care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 
But  marry  me  out  of  hand :  we  two  shall  be  happy  still." 

"  Marry  you,  Willy !"  said  I,  "  but  I  needs  must  speak  my 

mind, 
I  fear  you  will  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind." 
But  he  turn'd  and  clasp'd  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer'd,  "  No, 

love,  no;" 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

So  Willy  and  I  were  wedded :  I  wore  a  lilac  gown ; 

And  the  ringers  rang  with  a  will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a 

crown. 
But  the  first  that  ever  I  bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 
Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

N  « 


298  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

That  was  tlie  first  time,  too,  tliat  ever  I  thouglit  of  death. 
There  lay  the  s\Yeet  little  hotly  that  never  had  drawn  a  hreatli. 
I  had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I  had  heen  a  wile; 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  that  day,  for  the  baby  had  fought  for 
his  life. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain : 
I  look'd  at  the  still  little  body — his  trouble  had  all  been  in 

vain. 
For  Willy  I  cannot  weep,  I  shall  see  him  another  morn  : 
But  I  wept  like  a  child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he 

was  born. 

But  he  cheer'd  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay : 
Kind,  like  a  man,  was  he;  like  a  man,  too,  would  have  his  way. 
Never  jealous — not  he  :  we  had  many  a  happy  year; 
And  he  died,  and  I  could  not  weep — my  own  time  secm'd  so 
near. 

But  I  wish'd  it  had  been  God's  will  that  I,  too,  then  could 

have  died : 
I  began  to  be  tired  a  little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side ; 
And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I  don't  forget : 
But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they're  all  about  me  yet. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 
Pattering  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 
Pattering  over  the  boai-ds,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will, 
While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  plowing  the  hill. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I  hear  them  too — they  sing  to  their 

team : 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a  pleasant  kind  of.  dream. 
They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed — 
T  am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 


OLD  AGE.  299 

Aud  yet  I  know  for  a  truth,  there's  none  of  them  left  alive; 
For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-tive  : 
And  Willie,  my  eldest  born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten ; 
I  knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they're  elderly  men. 

For  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I  grieve ; 
I  am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father's  farm  at  eve : 
And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I ; 
I  find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad ; 
But  mine  is  a  time  of  peace,  and  there  is  grace  to  be  had. 
And  God,  not  man,  is  the  judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease; 
And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 

And  age  is  a  time  of  peace  so  it  be  free  from  pain, 
And  happy  has  been  my  life ;  but  I  would  not  live  it  again, 
I  seem  to  be  tired  a  little,  that's  all,  and  long  for  rest ; 
Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I  could  have  wept  with  the  best. 

So  Willie  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower; 
But  how  can  I  weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour — 
Gone  for  a  minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next. 
I,  too,  shall  go  in  a  minute.     What  time  have  I  to  be  vext  ? 

And  Willy's  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  overwise. 
Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  :  Thank  God  that  I  keep  my  eyc3, 
There  is  but  a  trifle  left  you,  when  I  shall  have  passed  away  ^ 
But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now :  you  cannot  have  long  to 

stay. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


300  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 


ACROSS   THE   KIVEK. 

"^TTHEN  for  me  the  silent  oar 

Parts  the  silent  river, 
And  I  stand  upon  the  shore 

Of  the  strange  forever, 
Shall  I  miss  the  loved  and  known  ? 
Shall  I  vainly  seek  mine  own? 

'Mid  the  crowd  that  comes  to  meet 

Spirits  sin-forgiven — 
Listening  to  their  echoing  feet 

Down  the  streets  of  heaven, 
Shall  I  know  a  footstep  near, 
That  I  listen,  wait  for  here  ? 

Then  will  one  approach  the  hrink 

With  a  hand  extended, 
One  whose  thoughts  I  loved  to  think 

Ere  the  veil  was  rended, 
Saying,  "  Welcome !   we  have  died, 
And  again  are  side  by  side." 

Saying,  I  will  go  with  thee, 

That  thou  art  not  lonely, 
To  yon  hills  of  mystery  j 

I  have  waited  only 
Until  now,  to  climb  with  thee 
Yonder  hill  of  mystery. 

Can  the  bonds  that  make  us  here 

Know  ourselves  immortal. 
Drop  away  like  foliage  sere 

At  life's  inner  portal  ? 


0 


OLD  AGE.  301 

What  is  holiest  below 
Must  forever  live  and  grow. 

I  shall  love  the  angels  well, 

After  I  have  found  them 
In  the  mansions  where  they  dwell, 

With  their  glory  round  them ; 
But  at  first  without  surprise 
Let  me  look  in  human  eyes. 

Step  by  step  our  feet  must  go 

Up  the  holy  mountain; 
Drop  by  drop  within  us  flow 

Life's  immortal  fountain. 
Angels  sing  with  crowns  that  burn ; 
We  shall  have  a  song  to  learn. 

He  who  on  our  earthly  path 

Bids  us  help  each  other; 
Who  his  well  beloved  hath 

Made  our  Elder  Brother; 
Will  but  clasp  the  chain  of  love 
Closer  when  we  meet  above. 

Therefore  dread  I  not  to  go 

O'er  the  silent  river; 
Death,  thy  hastening  oar  I  know, 

Bear  me,  thou  life-giver. 
Through  the  waters  to  the  shore 
Where  mine  own  have  gone  before. 

Lucy   Larcorn. 


NLY  what  we  have  wrought  into  our  characters  during  life 
can  we  take  away  with  us. 

Humboldt. 
26 


802  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Set  thiuo  liou.^e  iu  order. 


Isaiah  xxxvili.  i. 


T^HE  satisfactions  of  this  life  are  many;  but  there  will  come 
a  time  when  we  have  had  a  sufficient  measure  of  its  enjoy- 
ments, and  may  well  depart  contented  with  our  share  of  the 
feast.  I  am  far  from  regretting  that  this  life  was  bestowed  on 
me  J  and  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have 
employed  it  in  such  a  manner  as  not  to  have  lived  in  vain.  In 
short,  I  consider  this  world  as  a  place  which  nature  never 
intended  for  my  permanent  abode ;  and  I  look  on  my  departure 
from  it,  not  as  being  driven  from  my  habitation,  but  simply 
as  leaving  an  inn. 

From   Cicero   "On  Old  Age." 


rLIGHT   or  TIME. 

\T7E  arc  doomed  to  suffer  a  bitter  pang  as  often  as  the  irre- 
coverable flight  of  our  time  is  brought  home  with  keen- 
ness to  our  hearts.  The  spectacle  of  a  lady  floating  over  the 
sea  in  a  boat,  and  waking  suddenly  from  sleep,  to  find  her 
magnificent  ropes  of  pearl  necklace  by  some  accident  detached 
at  one  end  from  its  fastenings,  the  loose  string  hanging  down 
into  the  water,  and  pearl  after  pearl  slipping  off  forever  into 
the  abyss,  brings  before  us  the  sadness  of  the  case. 


TRAVELING  IN  TOREIGN  LANDS. 
SPHERE  is  a  dignity  about  tliat  going  away  alone,  we  call 
dying,  that  wrapping  the  mantle  of  immortality  about  us; 
that  putting  aside  with  a  pale  hand  the  azure  curtains  which 
are  drawn  around  (his  cradle  of  a  world;  that  venturing  away 
fruiii  Ikiiiic  I'nr  (he  lii>(  time  in  our  lives,  i'ov  ire  are  not  drad — 


OLD  AGE.  ;J0o 

there  is  notliiiig  dead  to  speak  of— and  seeing  furci-n  countries 
not  laid  down  on  any  maps  that  we  know  about.  There  must 
be  lovely  lands  somewhere  starward,  for  none  ever  re-turn  (hat 
go  thither,  and  we  very  much  doubt  if  any  would  if  tlicy 
could. 


PKAYEK  or  ALKXANDEK  PEDEN. 
T  ORD,  thou  hast  been  both  good  and  kind  to  old  Sanny 
through  a  long  tract  of  time,  and  given  him  many  years 
in  thy  service,  which  have  been  as  so  many  months;  but  now 
he  is  tired  of  thy  world,  and  hath  done  all  the  good  in  it  that 
he  will  do,  let  him  away  with  the  honesty  that  he  has,  for  he 
will  o-ather  no  more. 


A  SUMMARY   SUMMING-UP   OP   DIPPICULT  SUMS. 

The  sum  of  all  science : — Perhaps. 

The  sum  of  all  morality  : — Love  what  is  good,  and  practice 
it. 

The  sum  of  all  creeds : — Believe  what  is  true,  (to  you)  and 
do  not  tell  all  you  believe. 

Residuum  of  a  Library. 


LIPP. 
T  IFE  !  we've  been  long  together, 
-^  Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear; 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear; 

Yet  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Say  not,  "  Good  night,"  but  in  some  happier  clime 

Bid  me,  "  Good  morning." 

Anna  Letitia   BarbauicJ. 


oOJ:  MOSAICS  OF  LIFE. 

Death  did  not  seem 
So  mucli  even  as  the  lifting  of  a  latch — 
Only  a  step  into  the  open  air, 
Out  of  a  tent  already  luminous 
With  light  which  shone  through  its  transparent  walls. 


rpiIIS  world  I  deem  but  a  beautiful  dream 
Of  shadows  which  are  not  what  they  seem ; 
Where  visions  rise  giving  dim  surmise 
Of  the  things  which  shall  meet  our  icaliing  eyes. 

Soon  the  whole, 

Like  a  parched  scroll. 
Shall  before  my  amazed  sight  uproll^ 

And  without  a  screen, 

At  one  burst  be  seen 
The  Presence  lolierein  Fve  ever  been ! 


NIGHT   AND    DEATH. 

Dedicated  to  Coleridge. 

Mysterious  night,  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame. 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came. 

And  lo !   creation  widened  on  his  view. 


OLD  AGE.  305 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  hiy  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  !  or  who  could  find, 

Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind ! 

Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

Blanco   White. 


OUK   BIKTH   IS   YET   TO   COME. 

"PvEATH  is  Birth.     And  as  in  this  life  we  woke  into  con- 
sciousness  in  the  arins  of  loving  friends,  so  we  may  ventui'e 
to  hope  our  next  waking  will  be  bosomed  by  that  Eternal  Love 
which  provided  this  shelter  for  us  here. 

F.  H.  Hedge, 


THE    END. 


7  ^  ^  ^  1 

A.,  ti  O  i^  J- 


